The Linden Tree
by DownliftedAndUnderwhelmed
Summary: After the battle of Azanulbizar, the remnants of Durin's Folk settled in Ered Luin, and laboured hard to build a new life there. But one day, Riders from the south came looking for skilled stonemasons. The Orcs, driven from the Misty Mountains, were now raiding Rohan; and the Hornburg, the refuge of the Eorlingas, was crumbling. Thorin and his companions set out with the Riders...
1. Prologue

**Author's note:** _I took my cue from Richard Armitage saying he needed a long-lost love-interest to flesh out Thorin's backstory. So I decided to oblige. Considering Thorin was only 24 when Smaug descended upon Erebor, the dwarven-princess hypothesis didn't really work; so I perused the Appendices looking for a suitable time-frame, and came up with this._

_It's essentially "Young Thorin goes to Rohan, saves the day and gets the girl", set in T.A. 2815._

_I've tried to adhere to book-canon as much as possible, with a few concessions to the film (Balin and Dwalin being older than Thorin, for instance; and of course Thorin's manifest gorgeousness). I've also tried to write in as pedantically Tolkienesque an idiom as I could, but there are a few lapses here and there, because quite frankly a girl needs to have a little fun; so expect Dwarves with Eddaic names, Pratchetty footnotes, Wagner jokes, embedded quotations from canon, fake Anglo-Saxon, etc. And lots of Rohan, obviously._

_Slow build-up, because Thorin needs a little time to thaw. __There will be sex and violence later on, but in a very understated, English way; hence the T rating._

_Prologue and Epilogue contain SPOILERS for those who haven't read the book._

_Professor Tolkien created Middle-Earth and its denizens, and Peter Jackson and his team brought it all to life; I'm not sure who technically owns all of this, but it's not me. I merely claim my OCs._

_There you go, boys and girls; I hope you enjoy it. Do let me know what you think!_

* * *

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Prologue**

After the stone lid had been placed on Thorin's coffin, those of the Company who had known him the longest retired to one of the inner guard-rooms they had made their own during the siege. There was a hearth there, and they had hauled up from the cellars a few flagons of strong drink; and they drank to Thorin's memory, though the fiery spirit gave them little comfort in their sorrow. Balin and Dwalin were there, of course, as were Óin and Glóin; and the Hobbit had come with them, for he was weary with war and grief and could not face the fuss and agitation that had come over the Mountain. And with them too came Gandalf, which rather surprised them.

"You too, Gandalf?" said Balin, a little unkindly. "I thought you'd rather be hobnobbing with Dáin and Bard and that Elvenking than sitting here with us lot."

"I have already done my share of _hobnobbing_, as you put it, Master Balin," answered the wizard; "and I daresay there shall be more time to _hobnob_ in the days to come. But tonight I would sit with you, and remember Thorin Oakenshield; for I too mourn him, whether you believe it or not."

"Oh very well. Here, have a drink. There are few enough of us as it is. The others are too busy getting friendly with Dáin's people. Don't suppose I can blame them."

"Nah, and we ought to do the same, if we want to get anything out of this," said Glóin. "But not while that preening Elvenking is around the place. Did you see that? Turning up at Thorin's funeral with the sword, all magnanimous, after the way he treated us back in Mirkwood? And after sitting armed on our doorstep, waiting for us to starve? Sickening, that was."

"Aye. I'd love to strangle the creepy git, but now that would be a diplomatic incident, wouldn't it?" growled Dwalin.

Gandalf cleared his throat and rose. "Much as you all may loathe Thranduil," he said, "let us not dwell on old grudges tonight; for we have gathered to honour the memory of a mighty Dwarf." Gandalf raised his glass. "Thorin Oakenshield, the heir of Durin; King under the Mountain."

"Thorin Oakenshield," chorused the others, and drank. Bilbo spluttered, for the strong drink burned his throat. Óin patted him on the back.

"Our relationship may have been fraught," Gandalf went on, "but he was a great and noble prince."

"He was a hothead and a rubbish strategist, that's what he was," said Dwalin. "What did he think he was doing, rushing at Bolg like that?"

"Glorious last stand, brother," answered Balin, and shook his head. "He was making such an end as would be worth a song."

"Stiff-necked fool," mumbled Dwalin, and he wept, and hid his face in his hands. And it was a great pity to see the strong, battle-scarred Dwarf weep like a child; but all knew that he and Thorin had been as brothers.

"And Fíli and Kíli," said Bilbo, raising his glass; for he had been fond of the good-humoured young Dwarves.

"Aye, Fíli and Kíli" said the others, and drank.

"Stupid kids," sobbed Dwalin into his mug.

"I guess I'll have to go back to the Blue Mountains," said Balin wistfully.

"I'll go, if you like," said Glóin. "I'll bring back the wife and kid."

"Do you fancy telling Dís?"

"Oh. Ah. Can't we just send a raven?"

"Of course we'll send a raven. But someone needs to tell her face to face."

"Who's Dís?" Bilbo whispered into Óin's good ear.

"Dís, my lad, is Thorin's sister, and the mother of Fíli and Kíli," answered Óin.

"Oh dear," said Bilbo.

"You said it. She's a lady to be reckoned with; but she's already lost her husband, and I fear this news will be too much for her."

"No, it's all right, I'll go," said Balin. "I think she'd rather hear it from me. Besides, there's stuff that needs taking care of over there. He asked me to…look after a few things."

A moody silence descended on the company, and each of them dwelled on feelings of loss. Bilbo felt maudlin, for this whole adventure seemed to him to have been a terrible waste.

"Look," he said at last, "this is a wake, right? Aren't we supposed to tell stories about the deceased, and remember all the glad times we had together? Well, I mean the glad times you had together, obviously. I was quite glad when he didn't get killed by Wargs, but I don't suppose that counts."

The Dwarves stared at him. "Bilbo, my lad," said Balin at last. "This is Thorin Oakenshield we're talking about, remember? I'm not sure he ever _had_ glad times. Now let me see. You've already heard about the time when his home was torched by a dragon when he was a youngster. And the time he had to work as a blacksmith to make ends meet. And the time his grandfather got his head chopped off by Orcs. _And_ the time his brother and half his kin were slain in a dreadful battle. How about the time when his father went bonkers and ran off into the wilderness and left him in charge of everything? Oh no, you've heard of that too."

Bilbo hung his head, and his eyes filled with tears. "If you put it like that, Thorin does seem to have had a pretty miserable time of it." No wonder he had always been in such a foul mood.

"Why don't you tell the lad of that time with the horse-people?" Dwalin asked Balin.

"Oh no, not that! That's got to be the worst of all! Besides, I don't think he'd want us to talk about that."

"I don't know," mused Dwalin. "It wasn't all bad. Not at first. Not for a while, actually."

"In any case, it was a long time ago. I can't remember much."

"Rubbish," said Dwalin.

Balin looked around him, and saw that all were keen to hear the tale, and he was outnumbered. "Oh, very well," he mumbled; "but let it be known that I would rather let the matter rest."

"I think it is well we should remember Thorin in happier times," said Gandalf. "And I do not think that he would begrudge us the telling of this tale, not now."

"Well," said Balin irascibly, "since you seem to know so well what he would and would not approve of, you can begin the tale, Gandalf. After all, you're the one who started the whole sorry business."

They all turned to look at Gandalf.

"Oh, hrm, yes," said the wizard. "I'm afraid it all started with me knocking at a door."


	2. Chapter 1

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 1

The cold rain was beating down hard, and dripped off the brim of the old man's hat. But still the doorward would not budge.

"You cannot pass!" he cried. "Wandering peddlers are not wanted in Meduseld. Now away with you, grandfather, or you shall feel the sharp end of my spear!"

"And you shall feel the blunt end of my stick, young man, and may it teach you some manners!" said the old man, whose patience was wearing thin. "I have told you, the lord of the Mark knows me, and welcomes me always."

"The lord of the Mark is not here; and as for me, I have never seen you here."

"And how long have you been here, lad? You must still have been hanging on your mother's skirts when last I came. If the King is not there, what of the lady? She at least must be in."

"Do you think I shall disturb the lady because there is a beggar at the gate?"

"See that you do, or she will box your ears when she finds out how you have greeted me!"

The guard conferred with his fellows, and one marched inside the hall, still eyeing the old man suspiciously.

"There, they have gone to fetch her, as you wished. But then, I imagine a night in a nice dry cell will be an improvement on your present lot."

"We shall see, my boy, we shall see", said the old man, and stood still in the pounding rain as he waited.

The doorward, who stood in the dry under the shelter of the wooden arches, began to find the old man's gaze unnerving. At last, the great door of the hall was thrown open, and the lady appeared, framed by more guards.

"What is this commotion?" she asked.

"My lady, this ragged wanderer has been-"

"Gandalf!" cried the lady, surprised and delighted.

"Lady Helmwyn," answered the old man, and bowed.

"Gandalf, you must come in at once, and dry yourself. Has the doorward treated you rudely?"

"Let us say he was… zealous", said the old man, and gave the young soldier a sharp look. "I daresay my attire was not to his liking".

The lady Helmwyn turned to the doorward, and her face was stern. "Gunnwald, is it?"

"Aye, my lady."

"I will not have it said that anyone was turned away from King Brytta's hall, however ragged-looking", she said in a voice as cool as steel. "Remember whose arms you bear, and whom you serve, and do him honour! As for this lord," she said, indicating the old man, "he is Gandalf Greyhame, a friend of the House of Eorl, and an honoured guest in Meduseld. You would do well to ask for his forgiveness."

The soldier floundered, and bowed clumsily to the grey wanderer. "My lord, forgive me, I did not know-"

"Never you mind, boy," said Gandalf. "Youth is ever quick to scorn old age. But let it be a lesson to you, not to judge others on their appearance. For appearances can be deceptive; and as the lady rightly said, this is the house of the King, and you should welcome every stranger with courtesy."

And with that, leaving the mortified doorward at his post, the lady led the old man inside the hall. The heavy doors closed upon them, and inside it was warm, and a great fire burned in a trough in the centre of the room.

"I am sorry of this rude welcome, Gandalf", said the lady Helmwyn. "Most of our seasoned men have been sent to the Westfold, and it seems our green youths have hardened their hearts to beggars and wanderers, for there are now many."

"Things go ill with the Mark, then?"

"Aye. But that tale shall wait. Come, my friend!"

She took him by the arm as they walked, and led him towards the fire. He was soaked and travel-stained, but she cared not, so glad was she to see him.

"First you shall sit by the fire, and warm yourself, and when you are rested you shall tell me news and tales of far lands and strange peoples."

"I have a feeling you will not let the news wait until I am dry!" laughed the old man. "But I will gladly sit by the fire and talk with you, my lady, for it is always a joy to see you. It has been too long."

He stopped and looked at her with his searching gaze. The lady had the fair hair and grey eyes of her people, but she was of slighter build than the women of the Mark, and had a thoughtfulness and a grace that came from Gondor, on her mother's side. She had been but a girl when he last saw her, but now she had grown into a fair young woman. But he could see that she was burdened with cares, and though she was smiling, her eyes were grave.

"Come, child, let us sit and talk. And perhaps, if there were something warm to drink…?" he trailed off, and raised a hopeful eyebrow.

She laughed. "Of course. Anything for my guest", said she, and showed him to a bench by the fire.

* * *

The old man's staff stood propped against a mighty carved pillar, and his hat and cloak hung steaming by the fireside, while he sat and gratefully ate a bowl of hot stew, and listened to the news from the Mark. It seemed that this tale could not wait after all, and that the lady Helmwyn needed to confide in him. The Mark was at peace no longer.

"The Orcs have grown ever more numerous over the past few years," she told him, "and their raids ever more frequent. Folk whose winter reserves have been stolen, when they are not slain, are forced to leave their homesteads and seek refuge with their kin, or flee to the east. I fear we shall have a famine again, Gandalf. We might be able to buy grain from Gondor, but what shall we have to trade with when the Orcs steal our horses and our sheep?" She sighed. "If only…"

"If only what, my child?

"If only the farmers could be persuaded to move together in larger homesteads, they might be better able to defend themselves. But the farms in the Westfold are scattered and vulnerable. Nay. The only solution I can see would be to store a great part of the grain in a safe place, to feed those that have been despoiled. But the only such safe place would be Helm's Deep, and the walls of the Hornburg are crumbling; and the caves we cannot defend, for the Orcs are likely to come down from the mountains, through the many cracks and crevices that open into the caverns."

"That is ill news indeed, my lady."

He put down his spoon. The stew had been good, and filling, but as ever when he was in Rohan, he wondered whether he had been eating horse. He took a sip of mulled wine and tried not to think about it.

This business with Orcs in the White Mountains worried him. They had troubled Rohan before, he knew, but now it seemed they were beginning to settle, and perhaps to breed, and harassed the people of the Westfold. It seemed that after the hardship of the war with the Dunlendings, and the Long Winter, the fragile peace of Rohan would break once more.

"What is Saruman doing about this? Is he doing anything at all?"

The lady frowned. "He sits in Orthanc and looks out over the Gap of Rohan and promises help; but he has no army, and what form his help may take, we can but guess. But I know he is your friend, and I should not speak ill of what I do not understand."

"Dear lady, you may speak plainly with me. And I would hear what you have to say."

"Perhaps he _does_ have some power that we cannot perceive, and perhaps he _is_ using it to protect us; and perhaps things would be worse without him, and I am doing him an injustice. But I shall tell you plainly: I like him not, Gandalf, for under his honeyed words, he is cold, and I feel he has but contempt for our people." She shook her head. "Forgive me, Gandalf, my cares make me impatient. Might you perhaps talk to him?"

"Saruman's mind is subtle, and his designs are difficult to perceive. But he involves himself in such lofty matters, that perhaps a few Orc-raids seem to him but a trifle," said he diplomatically. And nearly added: 'and he never cared much for the sufferings of common folk', but he did not wish to speak ill of Saruman either. Indeed, he knew Saruman did not think much of the house of Eorl, though he did not tell her that. He admired Saruman's learning; but he also knew the head of his order was all mind and no heart, and this made him uneasy. "Perhaps I _should_ talk to him. A few Orc-raids can become a war, and I am sure at least that he shall not want a war on his doorstep." He gave the lady as reassuring a smile as he could muster.

"You shall be able to discuss this with my father when he returns," said she. "Hunting Orcs has become his chief sport, and that of most of our Riders. How long can you stay, Gandalf?"

"Maybe a few days, but not more, for I have business to attend to, and now it seems I am to call on Saruman too. But I should be glad to speak with the King. Has he still the same indomitable spirit and the same hearty laugh?"

"Aye, that he does, and it is a great comfort to all in the Mark who see him ride hither and thither through the land, for it shows them we are still unconquered. For now. But come, my friend, tell me news of the wide world, for I would forget my cares awhile."

"The news of the wide world is seldom glad, my lady," Said Gandalf, "but I will tell you some of it; and who knows, it may profit you to know what perils other peoples face, and how they fight them. Here, drink with me." He poured her a cup of mulled wine, and refilled his own. "I must say, this is truly excellent. Most invigorating." He rummaged in his bag and produced a slender pipe and a pouch of weed. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"It is a strange habit," said the lady, "but you may do as you please. Indeed, the first time I saw you, and saw that you were breathing smoke, I was both terrified and fascinated. I thought you might turn into a dragon."

The old man smiled. She had been a tiny child then, but an inquisitive one. He puffed on his pipe.

"I like a pipe by the fireside. I find it soothing, and it helps me think. Now where were we. Ah yes, news. Let me think. Speaking of dragons, have you heard of the Dwarves of late?"

"Only what you told me when last you came. You said a great dragon had laid waste their underground realm and stolen their treasures."

"Aye, that he did, and for all anyone knows, he sits under the mountain still, watching his hoard. But the Dwarves had to flee from their homeland, and took the long road of exile."

"A sad tale. But what could anyone do against such a foe?"

"What indeed? But I will tell you what befell them. They travelled west, for they hoped to retake the halls of their fathers in the Misty Mountains. But these were crawling with Orcs and other, worse things, and so the Dwarves remained without a land of their own, and were scattered, and made what living they could labouring among Men. But they are a proud people, lady, and one day their King, Thrór, who had been King under the Mountain before the dragon came, could bear this shame no longer and went to reclaim the ancient realm of Moria."

"Did he succeed?"

The wizard shook his head sadly. "Nay. He was slain by Orcs, and his body was defiled. But his death stoked the fire in the hearts of his people, and they gathered their strength, and at last Thrór's son Thráin led his armies against the Orcs of the Misty Mountains. The war lasted several years, and many Orcs were slain. At last, Thráin stood before the gates of Moria, where many of the remaining Orcs had fled, and there was a great battle."

Gandalf waxed into his role as a storyteller, for knew she loved such tales, being a true daughter of Eorl.

"First it seemed to be going ill for the Dwarves, for the Orcs were many, and desperate. Thráin was wounded, and they say he lost an eye. But Thráin's son Thorin fought the captain of the Orcs. His shield was shattered, but he picked up a branch of oak and defended himself with that, and so defeated the Orc-chieftain. The Dwarves saw this, and their courage was rekindled; and they rallied behind Thorin Oakenshield, and won the day."

"If there be songs of this battle, I should like to hear them, for it seems great and valiant deeds were done on that day" said she, and indeed, he saw that her eyes were shining.

"If the Dwarves made songs about this day, I fear they are not merry songs, my lady; for it was a bitter victory. Many of their folk had been slain, and they could not retake the realm of Moria, for therein dwelt an evil they could not defeat."

"Not another dragon?"

"Nay. Something altogether worse."

The old man grew silent, and gazed into the fire, and would not say any more of this evil; and she did not press him, for the saw dread in his eyes. Instead, she asked:

"But what of the Dwarves?"

"They came west of the Misty Mountains, and wandered as before, hiring out heir skills to the Men of Eriador."

"Your tale fills me with sorrow," said the lady; "for the Dwarves sound like a proud and valiant people. What must it be like to lose the home of one's ancient fathers, _twice_!"

"It _is_ a sorrowful tale, like all tales where folk are driven from their homes by the spawn of the enemy" said Gandalf, and puffed on his pipe. "I am fond of Dwarves, and wish them well, though they are prickly and stubborn. But be comforted, lady. For though I have not seen it myself, I have heard that they have begun to settle in the southern Blue Mountains, on the western marches of Eriador."

"It seems a perilous business, dwelling under mountains. Let us hope that there is no ancient evil there, waiting to prey on them."

"Let us hope so indeed! But they are a stout folk, and skilled in all manner of crafts, and I have no doubt that within a few decades they shall have built a prosperous new life for themselves."

He sat there for a while, wreathed in pipe-smoke, and watched the lady, who was gazing into the fire, lost in thought.

"Of course," said Gandalf, "they will still need to work for a while until their new realm is established."

The lady looked up at the old man, and saw his eyes twinkle.


	3. Chapter 2

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 2

All day the Dwarves had toiled through the undergrowth. Spring had brought floods, and the well-trodden path that led eastwards was drowned. They had tried cutting through the wooded hills, hoping to join the road again further on; but now night was falling, and they had not found the road, and there was not a village in sight.

"It's useless, lads," said Thorin. "There's nothing for it but to camp here tonight."

"Again," said Balin. "Is it just an impression, or are we lost?"

"The roads are flooded. Of course we're bloody lost," answered Thorin irritably. He would not be questioned, although he knew deep down that his orienteering skills weren't quite what he would wish. Not that he was worried; even striking through the woodlands, they were bound to come across other dwellings of Men sooner or later. But he was already weary of the damp, and of _cram_; and they had only set out a couple of weeks ago.

The Dwarves put down their packs and their tool-boxes, and set about gathering wood and getting a fire started. They huddled close to the blaze, and shared their cheerless meal; and Thorin saw poor Dwalin eyeing his _cram_ balefully. Dwalin caught Thorin's eye. "Say, Thorin, how much longer d'you reckon we'll have to do this?"

Thorin shrugged. He would have liked to know that himself. "Until more of us turn up. Until we find a seam of something interesting. Until someone thinks up a way of turning sandstone into gold."

The Dwarves laughed mirthlessly. They knew well enough what could and could not be done with metal.

"S'funny," said Dwalin. "I always assumed that, you know, we'd move in, and that would be that. Nice cosy home. No more wandering."

"Half a year on the road beats the whole year on the road, if you ask me," said Snorri, and sneezed.

"You know how it is, brother," said Balin. "If we want food, we need cash. The mines are simply not yielding enough for the moment."

"Mahal knows we waste enough time down there. We should be getting on with building some proper halls," said Hogni, whose ambitious plans for the Great Hall of Ered Luin had been frustrated for years.

"We can build, or we can delve, Hogni; but a fine hall won't feed you," said Andvari. Regin rolled his eyes, but did not contradict his brother.

"You would say that, wouldn't you," grumbled Hogni. Andvari was a miner, and therefore biased.

"Come on, boys," said Thorin, in an attempt at lifting his companions' morale. "We're going to be fine. Things aren't easy, but they're a lot less hard than they were. We'll just have to grit our teeth for a few more years. Helgi, how are you getting on with your experiments?"

"Well, I think," answered Helgi the glassblower. "I got some rather pretty effects. Iridescent, like."

"That sounds promising," said Balin. "We might be able to sell that to the bloody Elves!"

The Dwarves laughed again, more heartily this time.

"Aye, that would be nice, to lighten the ponces' purses a bit," said Helgi. "But I do wish I had more time in my workshop, and less time spent on the road or down the mineshaft."

"Soon, my friend," said Thorin, "soon."

* * *

It began to rain again, and the Dwarves sheltered under the trees as well as they could. Thorin lit his pipe, and wrapped his cloak closer about his shoulders, and gazed mournfully into the fire. If he had tried to cheer his men, he felt very little cheer himself.

Not that he ever had much reason to be cheerful. He shouldered the weight of hardship as much as his fellows; but more than them, he smarted from the shame of destitution and exile, though he bore himself ever proudly, for their sake as much as for the sake of his house. But these things had become second nature to him, and they were not what troubled him now. Thorin had become increasingly uneasy about leaving the Ered Luin for long periods of time, as he worried about what Thráin might do.

Thráin had survived the Battle of Azanulbizar, but he had been grievously wounded; and though he had lost an eye, it was feared the greater hurt had been to his mind. Thráin had become restless, and impatient, and distracted; sometimes, he sat despondent for days and spoke barely a word, or worked himself up into a towering rage over trifles.

The worst was when someone was addressing him, but he looked away, and did not reply, and gazed unseeing into the middle distance, and though he had gone somewhere far away in his mind. His erratic behaviour was perhaps not yet apparent to most; but those who were close to him, and knew him well, saw that this was not merely dwarven ill-humour, but something worse. They shook their heads sadly, and said nothing to the King, but turned instead to his son in matters of state.

But every spring, Thorin set out on the road; and when he came back, he found Thráin had deteriorated further, and grieved that he was no longer the strong, commanding lord he remembered from the days of his youth. Thorin feared it would not be long before his father ran off half-crazed after some dream of glory, like Thrór had done in his folly. And so Thorin squared his jaw and took on this new burden; but he wished now more than ever that his brother had not been slain. How he would have needed his help in looking after their people, and their father, and their sister.

The fire hissed, and smoked, and went out, and Thorin steeled himself for another comfortless night in the wild.

* * *

The dawn came, pale and damp; and the Dwarves shook the droplets of moisture from their cloaks as best they could, and set off again, heading downhill. They found the eastern road again, and saw with relief that they had skirted the flood. The clouds had cleared a little, and the Dwarves struck out eastwards in rather better spirits.

They had been walking at a good pace for an hour or two, when they heard the sound of hooves in the distance. As the sound drew nearer, the Dwarves perceived that this must be a great company of riders, and they were approaching fast now, for the noise they made was like thunder. The Dwarves looked around them, seeking a place to shelter in the trees, for they were wary of robbers, and had no wish to come across a large party of Men; but the road ran now between hills that rose steeply on either side, and were but sparsely wooded, and offered no refuge.

"Looks like we're going to have to stand our ground, boys," said Thorin, and hefted his axe.

Around a bend in the road there came the host of riders; and the Dwarves saw that they were very tall, and wore bright hauberks such as were never seen in these parts. Spears they carried, and round shields emblazoned with the sun, and their tall helms were crested with horses' tails.

When the riders saw them, their leader raised a hand and ordered them to stop; and the horsemen cantered to a halt, spreading out as they could on the narrow road. The Dwarves, surrounded and outnumbered, gathered into a close circle, and drew their weapons. But the leader of the horsemen spurred his steed a few steps closer, and greeted them in the Common Tongue.

"Hail and well met, Masters, if you be indeed Dwarves, as my eyes would have me believe."

"Your eyes are sharp indeed if you can tell us from Elves at a glance," sneered Thorin. "But who might you be, riding thus armed through Eriador? If there be a war between Men, we want no part in it."

"We do not hail from Eriador," answered the rider, "and neither is war our purpose here. We are looking for Dwarves. But we came seeking craftsmen, not warriors; and it seems that you yourselves are ready for war."

"We are craftsmen _and_ warriors," said Thorin.

"Men are sometimes under the mistaken impression that we Dwarves carry sacks of gold and jewels around with us," said Balin helpfully.

"Wouldn't it be nice if that were true, eh lads?" called Dwalin, casually swinging his hammer. The Dwarves laughed grimly.

"We find it necessary to show them what we are really carrying around," resumed Balin, and his face was not at all kindly.

"Peace, Masters, I pray you," said the rider. "If we wished to rob you, would we not have done so already? But such is not our errand. Will you not hear me?"

"Very well, state your business!" growled Thorin, but he did not take his hand from his axe.

The rider took off his helm as a gesture of goodwill. "Well met, Masters, I say to you again. I am Amleth, captain of the Riddermark."

There was a silence among the Dwarves.

"Never heard of it," said Thorin.

* * *

Amleth took a deep breath. This was not going at all well. It was fortunate that the lady had sent him, and not some of the younger hotheads of the guard, otherwise there might have been bloodshed by now.

She had been most particular in her instructions to him. "Be sure to address them with the greatest courtesy", she had said, trying not to forget anything that Gandalf had told her, "for Dwarves are suspicious of Men, and very proud; and though they may look like humble craftsmen to you, they may be great warriors and lords among their people. For even high-born Dwarves learn to smith or delve, even as we in the Mark learn to ride, and there is no dishonour in it, but pride." Amleth had bowed, and promised. "We need them, Amleth," she had said at last, "do not fail us." She had looked at him gravely; and though he thought she was clutching at straws, he did not wish to disappoint her. "I will not fail you, my lady," he had said.

Remembering the lady's words, Amleth summoned all the courtesy he was capable of, in the face of the openly hostile Dwarves.

"You may not have heard it called the Riddermark," he said, "but perhaps you know it by another name; for it is called Rohan in the Elvish tongue, and thus the men of Gondor name it."

"Aye, that does ring a bell," said Thorin. "I heard the name, back when we were in Dunland. I gather you people aren't very popular in those parts." To be fair, after a few years of their war against the Orcs, the Dwarves had been none too popular there either, and removed to Ered Luin soon after. "So what do you want with us?"

"Dwarves, they say, are great craftsmen and skilled with stone."

"Is that what they say?" Thorin did not like being looked down upon, especially by a tall fellow on horseback.

"So famed indeed is the skill of your people, that we have ridden many miles in search of you. Everyone in these parts knew of the Dwarves, but none could tell us where you could be found, only that you walked the land every spring; and we wandered long looking for you."

The Dwarves made no reply, but gave him a stony look.

Amleth tried again. "It is said that you will hire out your skills to Men; and we indeed have great need of you. For Orcs have come down from the Misty Mountains, and the Mark is under threat; and only the craft of the Dwarves can now help us strengthen our ancient defences."

"That is as may be," answered Thorin. "But what will you offer us?"

"That you will need to discuss with the King," said the Rider. "I have not the authority to decide your reward. This only can I tell you: the Mark is rich in two things, grassland and horses; but I daresay we can offer you more than the villagers in these parts ever could."

The Dwarves considered this. "What do you think, lads?" Thorin said to his companions in the dwarvish tongue. "I think the captain has a point. Look at the armour these riders are wearing. These are a rich people, or richer at any rate than the folk around here."

"I rather like the sound of it," said Balin. "A job like this might keep us off the road next summer."

"But Thorin," objected Helgi, "none of us are proper stonemasons, except Hogni!"

"We all of us know how to hold a chisel," said Thorin. "I daresay that whatever we can do shall be good enough for them."

"They won't be pleased when they find out that those Orcs are troubling them because of us," said Dwalin.

"Then let's make sure they don't find out," said Thorin with a grin. "So. Are we all agreed?"

There were mumbles and nods of assent. Aside from Helgi's misgivings, all thought that they would take their chances with these Riders.

"Very well," Thorin called to Amleth. "We will come with you; but on one condition. We must be back in the Blue Mountains before the winter."

"If you must be back, then you shall be back," said Amleth, relieved. "Moreover, I can promise you shall have mounts to speed your homeward journey."

"That is well," said Thorin, "but how do you propose that we journey now? For we will not be flung over your saddlebags like luggage!"

"We have a few spare horses," said the rider, "and I daresay you yourself, and your fierce-looking companion there, will be tall enough to ride them. The rest of your company shall each be carried by one of us, if it please you."

The Dwarves grumbled, but there was no better solution, and they did not propose to walk all the way to Rohan.

Helgi they sent back to the Blue Mountains with a message informing Thráin of their whereabouts; and Thorin knew that Helgi was relieved to be back in his workshop sooner that expected. And so the Dwarves bid farewell to their companion, and departed with the horsemen.


	4. Chapter 3

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 3

Though Dwalin could ride well enough, he liked it not, and was saddle-sore; and he very much hoped there would be no more riding for a long while when they had reached Rohan. The Dwarves were hardy folk, but they were no great horsemen; and when they used mounts at all, these tended to be sturdy little ponies that were good on mountainous terrain, but seldom made great speed. But ponies were a luxury for Dwarves in these straitened times, and were reserved for tradesmen with goods to carry. In any case, ponies could not have kept the pace, and there was nothing for it but to cling on.

Never had the Dwarves thought that riding could be such tiring work, and soon became heartily sick of it; but they thought of the gold and gritted their teeth. The Riders though were strong and tireless, and so were their horses, though they had been on the road for weeks; and indeed they made better time on the way back than on the journey out, for then they had wandered long, but now their course was clear, and the Mountains drew nearer day by day.

They rode south for many days, and forded many rivers; and they rode through fen, and scrubland, and woodland, and barren hills, and past the homesteads of Men; and not all of them were friendly, for there had long been an enmity between the Rohirrim and the people of Dunland. But the Riders were tall, and had shining spears, and kept watch, and none dared attack them.

They came at last to the southernmost tip of the Misty Mountains, where they reached across a narrow plain to the northernmost peaks of the White Mountains. This was the furthest south that the Dwarves had ever been.

"Behold the Gap of Rohan!" said Amleth. "I should be glad to set eyes on it again, but the last part of our journey might yet be the most dangerous; for it is here, where the plain narrows, that the Orcs choose to cross. They never do it but under the cover or darkness, for the grasslands offer them no shelter. We shall ride no further tonight, and light no fires; but tomorrow we shall leave before dawn, and by evening we may reach the King's hall in Edoras."

The next morning, they set out in the grey light before dawn; and as the sky lightened, they saw the feet of the Last Mountain draw near, and march past. The sun rose in the East, bright and golden, in a clear sky; and they saw at last before them the rolling grasslands of Rohan, and away to the south the White Mountains, whose snow-capped peaks were edged in golden light. Rider and horse were glad to be home again, and filled their lungs with the cool morning hair, and rode on through the rich, dew-wet grass.

They forded a swift river, and passed onto the plains, and shouldered some low round hills. Amleth pointed to another hill, higher than the others, and the Dwarves saw that into the hillside was carved the image of a great white horse, running on the green grass. The hill must have been limestone, and the white horse gleamed in the morning light; and the riders sounded their horns to greet it.

They rode due south-east. The clear dawn turned into a bright, blustery day. The wind that blew down from the White Mountains chased ragged clouds across the sky. The Dwarves felt a chill, though the sun was shining; and the Riders lent them their leather capes against the wind, and against the frequent but brief showers of rain that swept over them.

They came at last within sight of Edoras. The city was built upon a green hill at the foot of the White Mountains, and at its summit stood a great hall; and it seemed to the Dwarves that its roof glinted golden in the afternoon sun.

Gold. That was an encouraging prospect for Thorin and his travel-weary companions.

* * *

The Riders sounded their horns as they approached the gates of Edoras, and shortly after they heard more horns answering them from the city watchers. The gate swung open for them, and as they rode in, the Dwarves saw that the gateposts were carved in the likeness of horses' heads.

The guards greeted Amleth and his _éored_, and rejoiced to see them again after so long an absence; but they marvelled at the Dwarves' strange appearance. The Riders made their way up the path that wound around the green hill and led to the great hall; and as they passed wooden houses, they saw that tall strong women and yellow-haired children were coming out to look at them. Their faces were guarded, but bespoke wonder rather than hostility, for none in the Mark had ever seen a Dwarf, and took them to be the stuff of old legends out of the North.

The children appeared particularly impressed by Dwalin, with his crest of hair, his tattoos and his two great battle-axes. He grinned at some of them, but if he hoped to frighten them, he failed, for these were children of the Mark, and loved nothing better than fierce warriors. As for Thorin, he noticed that there were few men, and these were old, or lame; and he saw on the women's faces the air of a proud people harassed by war and hardship. He knew that look, for the womenfolk of the Dwarves had worn it always during the time of their exile. His sister had that look.

They came to the foot of the stair that led to the hall, and dismounted; and Amleth led them up the broad stone stair, past tall guards in shining scale armour, to the platform before the hall.

The Dwarves did not care for wooden buildings, for to them wood was a lesser material, suitable only for barns or temporary structures; but they had to admit that the Golden Hall was of handsome proportion, and richly ornamented. Now that they stood before it, they saw that its great posts were intricately carved, and that the roof seemed to be made out of gilded shields. Though the carvings were strange, they were covered in a goodly amount of gold leaf, giving it in their eyes a sort of primitive majesty. It was certainly more impressive that any dwelling of Men they had seen in many years.

The doorward stepped forward and raised his hand in greeting.

"Amleth! You are returned at last from your wild errand in the North?"

"Aye, Gunnwald, I am! And hither have I also brought long-expected guests."

The doorward eyed the strangers warily, but he had learned from his brush with the grey wanderer and addressed them courteously:

"Hail, strangers from a far land! You have come to Meduseld, the hall of Brytta, King of the Mark. Lay aside your weapons, and enter!"

The doorward had meant this as a welcome, but he saw the Dwarves bristle. Thorin glared at him from under his stormy brows.

"You would have us do _what_?"

Gunnwald wondered what he had done wrong this time. "Er. Lay aside your weapons and enter. That is a standard greeting in the Mark," he added helpfully.

Thorin turned to Amleth, exasperated. "What was the point in making us come all this way, only to turn us away at the doorstep? Come on, lads, we're leaving." The Dwarves turned around and made to stomp off down the stair.

Oh no, thought Amleth. "Masters, please!" he called after them. "Do not leave, I beg you. We did not mean to give offence." The Dwarves turned their glare on him. "It is the custom of the Mark to leave one's weapons at the door, as a token of peace and goodwill", explained Amleth as diplomatically as he could.

"A Dwarf does not part willingly with his weapons, Captain," growled Thorin.

"And in most cases, I should deem that wise. But no danger awaits you in Meduseld. And indeed, were I a guest in the halls of your king, I should willingly leave my arms at the door."

Thorin gave Amleth a long, hard look. "Very well. Here I shall set my weapons. I do this for your sake, Amleth, for the courtesy you have shown us. But if any man touch these weapons, he shall learn that even an unarmed Dwarf can make him rue the day."

He scowled as he set his axe, sword and bow against the wall, and also his oakenshield; and the others followed suit, grumbling. Gunnwald grew pale as he saw a veritable arsenal pile up at the foot of the hall.

"I thought your errand was to bring back craftsmen, Amleth," said Gunnwald nervously.

"Oh, but we are" said Dwalin, unstrapping his battle-axes. "We have many skills".

"Don't look so worried, laddie," said Balin, wandering up to the poor doorward. "What you've got to understand is - well, Dwarves and weapons, it's like you people and horses. It's _cultural_." He smiled genially, and went to set something extremely spiky against the wall.

Dwalin was still pulling out miscellaneous sharp items from the recesses of his clothes.

"So, er, were you expecting any particular perils on the road?" said Gunnwald, making a spirited attempt at polite conversation.

Dwalin looked up. "What? Oh no. This is the stuff I always carry around. For everyday use, you might say." He gave Gunnwald a grin. "You should see me on _special occasions_."

The disarmed Dwarves assembled before the gate, feeling a little naked and, in Thorin's case, rather hard done by. Think of the gold, he kept telling himself. Stay calm, just think of the gold. Judging by the amount of gold on the gable, these people might still make their journey worth their while.

Gunnwald gave a nervous nod to the other guards, and the doors of the great hall were opened.


	5. Chapter 4

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 4

Amleth led the Dwarves inside the great hall. Inside it was dim, and they caught glimpses of tall carved pillars, and the glint of gold, and the rich hues of woven tapestries. At the far end of the hall there was a dais with a carved wooden chair; but the chair was empty, and beside it stood a lady. She was slender, and clad all in blue. Grave and thoughtful were her eyes; and though she was young, she seemed burdened with many cares.

Amleth stopped and bowed deep before her.

"My lady, I have returned from Eriador with seven Dwarf craftsmen, as you commanded."

"You have my thanks, Amleth, and those of the King," said the lady, and her voice was deep and musical; "for your journey was long, and your errand uncertain. But you have succeeded in your quest, and brought hope to the Mark."

Amleth bowed again, and stood aside.

The lady looked at the Dwarves. She had not really known what to expect, although she knew they must be a doughty folk, to have fought against the Orcs for so long. But she found their appearance truly striking; for some looked homely, and some proud, but all looked fierce. The big one with the crest of hair and a face like a fist, especially; even unarmed, he _bristled_. She remembered Gandalf's words, and took a deep breath, and extended her open hands in greeting.

"Welcome, Masters," said she. "I am Helmwyn, daughter of Brytta, and in the name of the King my father, I bid you welcome to the Riddermark. I fear the King is not here to greet you himself, for he is hunting for Orcs that have been plaguing our western marches. Amleth will have told you something of our troubles, and of the reason we have called you hither?"

There was a mumble of assent and a few nods, but otherwise stony silence. She would have to work harder to put them at their ease.

"It is said that Dwarves are marvellously skilled at stonework," she went on, with all the courtesy she could muster. "And the Mark has great need of your skill in this hour of peril. The great fastness of the Mark is crumbling, and we cannot repair it; for it was not made by us, but by the men of Númenor long ago. You can see it for yourselves, my people do not build in stone; and there are none now, even in Gondor, who know how to build like the Sea-kings of old. When we heard that your people had come west of the Mountains, we sent for you at once; for indeed, you are our last hope."

There was a moment of silence, but then a deep voice answered her: "The Golden Hall may not be made of stone, my lady, yet it is great, and fair. As for your troubles, we know of them, and shall be glad to discuss how we may help your people mend their stronghold."

The one who has spoken was a tall dwarf with a mane of dark hair and piercing eyes; and she thought him to be their leader, for his speech was noble, and he had a lordly bearing. She also noted his hint that nothing was agreed yet.

"I thank you for your words," said she. "We shall soon discuss the matter in greater detail. But first you shall rest, for you have a long road behind you. I thank you for undertaking this journey, Masters, and hope we shall come to a mutually profitable agreement." She watched the Dwarves, who appeared to like the sound of that. "But before you rest," she went on, "there is something I must ask of you. I was told that Dwarves do not willingly give their true names. If that is your custom, we shall respect it; but tell me, what shall you be called during your stay in the Mark?"

"My lady," answered their leader, "it is true we Dwarves do not give our true names; but as for the names we use, we have no reason to keep them secret in the house of the King of the Mark." He then announced solemnly, "I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór; and these are my companions, Balin and Dwalin, sons of Fundin, Snorri, Hogni, Andvari and Regin"; and each Dwarf bowed deeply as his name was spoken.

Helmwyn tried to memorise their names, then gave up, letting the litany of strange dwarven names wash over her. There would be time to learn them later. The leader's name however, together with his bearing and his speech, had stirred something in her memory. She held him long in her gaze.

"I believe I have heard your name before, Thorin Thráinsson," said she at last. "Are not you the one they call the Oakenshield?"

"Aye, my lady, I am he." She could see that he was surprised.

"Then I must beg for your forgiveness, my lord; for had I known you were coming to the Mark, you should have been greeted here with the honours befitting a king." And with that she stepped off the dais and bowed before Thorin.

There was a hush, and then a stir; and she perceived that her gesture had made an impression on the Dwarves. And indeed it had, for they had long been a wandering people, and had become unaccustomed to any courtesy at the hands of Men.

But Thorin was a prince, and accepted such courtesy as his due, and responded in kind. "There is naught to forgive, for the welcome of the Lady of the Mark wanted nothing in courtesy," said he; and he bowed to her in his turn.

They looked at one another, and understood one another, for they were both the children of kings. And both felt this would make things a great deal easier.

* * *

Balin groaned inwardly.

Now he's gone and revealed his name and his lineage, he thought. He might as well have stood on the foothills of the White Mountains and shouted 'the Heir of Durin is here, come and get him!' to all the Orcs that were skulking up there. He couldn't very well nudge his liege and tell him to shut up, and in any case the harm was done now. He sighed.

That was the thing about Thorin; he never bothered to conceal his majesty. Oh, he could well understand that to Thorin, the dignity of his house, and of his race, were essential to his sense of self. Pride was a way of remembering. The day he gave that up, he would be truly lost and broken. But there was such a thing as _discretion_.

Thorin never gave his name in the Mannish settlements where he laboured, and the Men did not ask; but had they known it, it would have meant nothing to them. To them, one Dwarf was much like another, except that this one was particularly haughty. But he was a fine smith, and so they hired him, and otherwise let him be.

But here, things were altogether different. These people were kings, and powerful enough after the reckoning of Men; they had heard the tales, and knew who he was. Thorin should have been more cautious; he should have given another name, he should have denied being the Oakenshield.

But he had allowed himself to be flattered. Aye, the lady had spoken courteously enough; but after years of wilderness, and the scant welcome of Men, that courtesy had clearly gone to Thorin's head like mead. His righteous anger over their weapons had vanished like mist in the morning sun. He spoke, and he bore himself, as though he were indeed a king, and not the heir without hope of a landless people. Balin felt this was dangerous, and he did not feel too sure about this Lady of the Mark, and her purposes.

But now she called to the guards, and bid them summon the heralds, and sent for mead, and for her ceremonial garments; and she led the Dwarves once more to the terrace before the hall, so that she might greet them formally after the custom of the Mark. And Balin saw that Thorin walked with her.

Well, there was one good thing to be said about the people of the Mark at least: they seemed to like ceremony almost as much as Dwarves did.

* * *

"How am I to announce you, my lord?" asked the lady Helmwyn as they walked towards the doors; and the horns of the heralds were heard outside, summoning all of Edoras. "Are you now king of your people? How fares the lord Thráin? Forgive my asking, but my news travelled long before reaching me."

"King Thráin lives, and rules still over our people in the Blue Mountains" said Thorin cautiously. This was not an untruth.

"Then long yet may he rule, and may your people know peace and prosperity in their new home."

He thanked her for her words, but did not tell her the whole truth, for the state of his father grieved him, and he did not wish to speak of it.

The doors of the hall opened once more, and the Dwarves' weapons were brought to them, with some caution, by the doorward and his sentries. They girded themselves slowly, and with great satisfaction, all the while looking pointedly at the unfortunate Gunnwald. And among all their assorted weaponry, the lady noticed that the lord Thorin did indeed carry a branch of oak, iron-bound and fashioned to fit his shield-arm like a mighty vambrace.

A heavy, gold-embroidered cloak was laid across the lady's shoulders, and fastened with a golden brooch; and upon her brow they set a circlet of golden flowers. And she stepped out onto the windswept terrace, and the Dwarves followed her, and Amleth also; and the horns sounded once more, and banners bearing the white horse streamed out in the wind.

The lady saw that the people of Edoras were gathered, and looked up expectantly at her. She raised her hands, and silence fell, and she spoke to her people thus:

"Eorlingas!" called she in a clear, commanding voice. "This day brings joy, and hope! Valiant Amleth rode with his _éored_ into the far north, to seek the Dwarves, and ask for their help. And behold! They have sent us their finest craftsmen and warriors. And among them is none other than the prince of their people, the mighty Thorin Oakenshield, who defeated the Orcs of the Misty Mountains!"

A murmur of wonder began to spread through the assembled crowd. Thorin could feel the eyes of every man, woman and child upon him.

"Gladly do we welcome them now," she went on, "for with their help we may mend the Hornburg, and keep the Orcs at bay!"

She took a cup from one of the attendants, and raised it up; and Thorin saw that it was richly wrought, and engraved with the figures of horsemen.

"Receive now this cup, and drink King Brytta's mead, as a sign of friendship between the Dwarves and the Mark. _Wes thú hál_!" And with that she took a draught from the cup, and gave it to Thorin. As he took it, their eyes met; and now that she beheld him in the full light of day, she saw that his eyes were the pale blue of mountain ice, and that they were proud and sorrowful.

But he in turn raised the cup to her, and said: "I thank you, Helmwyn, Brytta's daughter, for your words of welcome; and I drink now to you, and to the King, and to all your people." And as he drank from the cup, a chorus of cheers rose from the crowd, and the Riders that were gathered at the foot of the stairs beat their spears against their shields. And amid the clamour, Thorin heard shouts of _'Eorlingas!'_, but also of _'Dweorga-bealdor!'_ and _'Áecen-scyld!'_.

Thorin passed the cup the Balin, and he to Dwalin; and while his companions drank from the cup of welcome, he looked around him from that high place, at the cheering crowd and beyond, out to the rolling grasslands under the vast dome of the sky. The taste of mead lingered in his mouth, and gusts of wind swept the terrace, and the light of the setting sun gilded all the land with red gold. He looked last to the Lady, and saw that she was smiling.

When all the Dwarves had drunk, and the clamour from the crowd had died down a little, she turned to Amleth, and praised his valour and his service, and gave him a sword. Then they went back inside the hall, and the voices of the crowd still rang out behind them.

Thorin had been honoured by the welcome he had received, but now he had some misgivings. "I fear you have forced my hand, my lady. For whatever your terms, it seems I am now honour-bound to help your people."

"Nay, my lord, I would not do such a thing. Though indeed I dread our negotiations, for I hear the Dwarves drive a hard bargain!" she said, but her smile widened. "But you are right, for that formal greeting had another purpose besides mere courtesy."

"And what might that be?"

"You heard the people, my lord. They were shouting 'the prince of the Dwarves!' and 'Oakenshield!'. And soon, the news will have spread to the farthest reaches of the Mark that the prince of the Dwarves and one hundred of his best axemen have come to our aid."

Balin, who walked behind them, overheard that, and shook his head.

"Indeed!" said Thorin, amused. "But will not your people be disheartened when it becomes plain there are but seven of us?"

"I do not think so; for after all if you do help us, it shall not be with deeds of arms. But in the meanwhile, this tale shall give my people hope, and strengthen their courage. That has to be worth almost as much as one hundred axemen."

Thorin gave her a long look, and thought that she was wise. "Well, my lady," he said, "I have but one axeman with me, but I daresay he at least is worth one hundred of my kind." And with that he gave Dwalin a brotherly clap across the shoulders. There was a _clang_ of metal.

"One hundred of your kind, truly?" said she, eyeing up Dwalin. How many axes did a Dwarf _need_? "I am inclined to believe that. I should very much like to see you fight, sir," she told him. It must be quite a sight.

"I'll be happy to oblige, lady" answered Dwalin, and showed his teeth. She decided to assume that was a smile. "And if you've got any spare Orcs, just send them my way. It's been a bit quiet back home lately, and I miss the sport. I'd rather be hewing Orc-necks than stone!" said he, and roared with laughter.


	6. Chapter 5

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 5

The lady Helmwyn ordered food to be brought to the Dwarves, and bade them take their ease in the great hall, and rest awhile; and she repaired to her chamber, took off her heavy mantle and her golden circlet, and sat down to think.

So this was the legendary Thorin Oakenshield. To think that of all the Dwarves that roamed Eriador, Amleth would chance upon him. Indeed, she began to wonder if this were truly the work of chance, or whether it were not some design of Gandalf's. However that may be, she was glad of his coming. Not only did she now have the aid of the skilled dwarven craftsmen she so desperately needed; here was also a mighty warrior and a great captain, whose name struck fear into the black hearts of the Orcs. Their presence, and his, certainly filled _her_ heart with quite a few axemen's worth of courage.

Helmwyn had need of it. She worried about the cold spring, and the rain, and whether the crops would be blighted; she worried about proud lords keeping the price of timber high and not paying their taxes; she worried about the Mark's trade with Gondor; but most of all she worried about the Orcs. She could see no end to their depredations. However many were slain, there always seemed to be more, and yet more of them. Her people might be strong, but they were weary; and she had wondered how to speak of hope and courage to them, when her own hope and courage were failing.

But now courage was rekindled in her, for it seemed that something decisive, something lasting could be done for the Mark, and it was within reach. She only hoped that she could persuade the Dwarves to stay, for they had yet to agree on terms. And so she set to work, and searched through her books and scrolls, gathering all she could find concerning the Hornburg.

* * *

The Dwarves sat around one of the long tables near the fire, and a (to them) light meal was brought. It was plain but good fare, such as was usual in the Mark: cured meats, strong yellow cheese, black bread, and golden ale; and Dwalin belched appreciatively, and seemed content.

They spoke quietly, and in their own tongue; for, although they had been treated as honoured guests, and were beginning to feel better at ease, the Dwarves were still keenly aware that they were in a strange land, very far from their home and kin.

"So, lads, what d'you make of it so far?" Thorin asked his companions.

Balin eyed the bronze sconces, and the tapestries, and the gilded carvings that adorned the hall, as indeed did the others. "I like it well enough," he said. "Let's hope these people are as straight in their business dealings as they are courteous."

"Aye, they can try to soften us up all they like," said Hogni darkly; "I'll trust them when I've got gold in my hand."

Balin thought that was a rather blunt way of putting it, but it wasn't so far removed from his own opinion. He glanced at Thorin, but Thorin merely smiled.

* * *

After a while the lady Helmwyn came to them, with books and maps under one arm, and joined them at the table. Her manner friendly, and much less formal than it had been earlier; and the Dwarves moved along the bench to make room for her. She asked whether they had everything they required, and Dwalin nodded in assent, for he had discovered a plate of oat and honey biscuits, and his mouth was full.

"Before we begin, might I ask you to tell me your names again?" said the lady. "Forgive me, Masters, but I fear they sound strange to our ears, and I would not mistake them."

She spoke to them all, and learned their names, and asked them about themselves, and their crafts. And though they gave her no details, she guessed that every single one of them had suffered great losses when the dragon came, or during their exile, or in the war with the Orcs.

She learned that Andvari came from a family of miners, but that his younger brother Regin had had to learn carpentry for the simple reason that there was little enough mining to be done after the Mountain had been taken. Those two had a strong bond, forged in hardship, but it was not one of kindness.

She was surprised to learn that Dwalin, the huge warrior, was the brother of Balin, the small, shrewd-looking one with the iron-grey beard; and judging by their speech and their garments, she guessed that they were nobly born, and had once been wealthy.

Black Hogni was a bitter and cantankerous one, and the days were long past where he hewed the likenesses of kings out of the living rock of Erebor; but whether this was the cause of that remained unclear.

Snorri had been spared from the fighting by his short-sightedness, and his shock of fair hair and his wispy beard gave him a genial air. But he was also a little odd, and doodled in his notebook, and muttered to himself; and Helmwyn wondered whether he had always been thus.

And then there was the lord Thorin. He was…not aloof exactly, for his manner to his companions was brotherly; but withdrawn somehow, as though he were older than his years, or carried a great burden. He sat quietly, and watched, and listened, smoking his pipe; and Helmwyn was amused to see that he shared this habit with Gandalf.

It seemed Balin was reading her thoughts, for he asked her: "I am curious, my lady, as to how you came to know so much about the history and ways of our people; for we dwell far to the north, and Men care not to know about us, no more that we care to tell them about ourselves."

"All that I know, I learned from Gandalf," answered she. "Perhaps you know him?"

Balin shook his head. "I have not heard that name before."

"Then perhaps you know him by another name, for he travels far and wide bearing news and counsel to those that would hear it – and I daresay to those who would not. He is clad in grey, and wears a pointed hat, and carries a staff. I would say he is an old man, but some say he has been an old man for so long that there must be more to him than meets the eye, and I am inclined to believe that; though what he truly may be, I do not know. Some say that he is a wizard, and are wary of him; but I trust him, and have ever profited from his advice."

"I think I know of him, or of someone like him," said Thorin, "though he is called by other names in the north. A grey wanderer with a staff, you say, who meddles in the affairs of the mighty, and then disappears and is not seen again for an age?"

"Aye, that would be him."

"I believe my grandfather mentioned him. But Thrór was ever suspicious of meddlers, and did not remember him kindly. But he advised you to send for my people?"

"Not as such. But he planted the idea in my mind, and waited for it to unfold by itself, for that it his way."

"Then perhaps his advice is not altogether bad. I should like to meet him."

"I am surprised you have not. He speaks well of your people," said Helmwyn with a smile; and though this was true, she did not add that Gandalf had also warned her about the stiff necks, short tempers and acquisitiveness of the Dwarves.

* * *

They pushed the plates and dishes aside to make room for the maps; and Helmwyn unfolded a sheet of parchment, and pulled up the sleeves of her gown, and pointed to Edoras, and the Westfold, and the Hornburg. She then opened a leatherbound volume containing songs and histories of the Mark, and showed them a miniature of Helm's Deep; and the Dwarves huddled over the book to have a better look at the drawing.

"This is but a crude rendering," said Helmwyn, "and the proportions are not right; but it might give you an idea of how the fortress is laid out."

"What are we talking about here?" asked Hogni. "Limestone?"

"Aye, grey limestone, such as is found in our mountains," answered the lady.

"And how far away's your quarry?"

"The stones of the Hornburg were quarried from the Deep behind it. This served a double purpose, as it made the walls of the chasm steeper, guarding it from any attack from the mountains."

"I wouldn't count on that, lady," said Dwalin. "I've seen Orcs scuttle down sheer cliffs."

"At least we won't have to haul blocks of stone halfway across the plains," muttered Hogni. "Snorri, how about hoists?"

Snorri looked up from the notebook where he had been scribbling. "Hmm? Oh, yes. Well, I've got this design for an ox-hoist, but I can adapt it for horses if you like."

"That is a wondrous machine, Master Snorri," said the lady, "but I fear we cannot bring any beasts beyond the Deeping-Wall; for if a causeway leads to the Hornburg, there are only narrow stairs that lead thence down into the Deep."

"Really? Well in that case, why not make a device to lower horses from the castle?"

He began drawing at once, and Helmwyn was impressed, although she seriously doubted whether any horse would allow itself to be hoisted thus.

She was about to tell the Dwarves about the system of caves that lay behind Helm's Deep, when there was a commotion at the door, and a gruff voice called "Let me trough, you halfwits! I've come to see the King!". A stout, red-faced man strode into the hall, followed closely by a flurry of guards who were unsure whether to stop him or no.

"Oh no, not now," sighed Helmwyn, and braced herself. "Lord Wulfhere!" she called. "How kind of you to come at last."


	7. Chapter 6

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 6

The guards did their best to manoeuvre the irate lord towards the table where Helmwyn sat with the Dwarves.

"I came because I was summoned," said he. "And pretty rudely, too." He glanced at the Dwarves, and, not knowing what to make of them, decided to ignore them. They were unlikely to be important. He would have ignored the lady too had it not been for the soldiers.

The Dwarves eyed the lord's rich clothes, and his belly, and his sword, and took an instant dislike to him.

"You _did_ send away our messengers unanswered," said Helmwyn.

"Well, here I am," said Wulfhere irritably. "Where is the King?"

"Where do you think? He rode out to hunt Orcs."

"What about his sons?"

"If they are not in Aldburg, why, I imagine they must be hunting Orcs."

"Is there then no-one here I can talk to?" bellowed Wulfhere.

Helmwyn gave him an icy look.

"Of course. Fetch Osric," she told one of the guards.

She was sitting on a bench and surrounded by Dwarves, and there was no way she could rise with dignity to face the man at eye-height. So she decided to make the most of it, and did not offer lord Wulfhere a seat, or a drink; but instead she sat at her ease while he paced like an angry bear.

"It was King Aldor who gifted your forefathers their land, was it not?" she asked with feigned lightness.

"Aye," he replied gruffly, not interested in wasting his breath on this woman.

"For their unbending loyalty to the Mark, and to the House of Eorl, was it not?"

"Aye. What of it?" he barked. Evidently, subtelty was lost on him.

"My lord," Helmwyn went on sweetly, "I understand that a man of your age can no longer be expected to ride out; but tell me, how many men from your retinue did _you_ send to the Westfold?"

Wulfhere stopped pacing and glared at her. They both knew he was younger than the King; and they both knew he had sent but three knights and a dozen farmhands. "What means this impertinence?" he growled.

"It means, my lord, that you were summoned here on my orders, and that you shall answer to me, whether you like it or not."

"_You_ summoned me?" said Wulfhere, and laughed.

The Dwarves exchanged glances. Whatever happened next, it was bound to be entertaining.

* * *

The guard came back escorting a little man in a black robe carrying a ledger almost as big as he was. Judging by the worried look on his face, he was dreading the scene to come.

"Ah, Osric," said the lady. "And you brought the ledger. How thoughtful. Lord Wulfhere seems rather upset by our summons. Perhaps you might remind him of the figures that raised our concerns?"

"Er. Yes. Certainly." The little man looked around for a space to set down his ledger, found none among the maps and crockery, and leafed through the thick volume as best he could, resting it awkwardly on one arm. "Here we are. Lord Wulfhere, a hundred acres of woodland in the Folde… Ah yes. We noticed an almost threefold increase in the price of timber from your lands over the past five years, whereas the tax revenue…let me see…has remained stagnant…"

Helmwyn's eyes did not leave the lord Wulfhere, who was going increasingly puce in the face. He had relied on the King's good nature and the incompetence of his stewards for many years now, and almost felt genuinely entitled to make a profit from his lands.

"My lord," said Helmwyn, "you may not have noticed this, in the comfort of the Folde; but the Mark is at war. Wood is needed to repair the dwellings that were destroyed, and to build walls and defences around the homesteads in the Westfold. But wood is scarce in that region, and what woodlands there were are now depleted. We must ask you to lower your prices."

"I'm still lord in my own lands, and will set the prices as I please. And if it _is_ too dear for the people of the Westfold, why don't they go to Fangorn?" sneered Wulfhere. "There's plenty of timber there, for free!"

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Helmwyn.

Snorri tugged at Helmwyn's sleeve and showed her a page from his notebook. "I've got this design for a sawmill, if you're interested. This is just the basic mechanism, but you could add more gearing and have several saws working at the same time. And with a crank _here_ you can adjust the width of the planks…"

"What is he talking about?" said Wulfhere, bewildered by the interruption.

"Well, it makes sense," said Balin. "You sell the wood cheaper, but you sell more of it."

"What a splendid idea," beamed Helmwyn. "My lord Wulfhere, you shall have the honour of building and maintaining a sawmill in the name of the King. At your own expense, of course. Master Snorri shall provide the plans. Price of timber to be cut by two thirds – no, wait, make that three quarters – and your arrears, of course; and we may persuade the King to be lenient about the war profiteering and the tax evasion. Do we have an agreement?"

Wulfhere stared at the lady and the Dwarves in turn in total disbelief. "This is outrageous!" he bellowed.

"Indeed it is," said Helmwyn.

"I won't stand for this! I will not be mocked by a … a girl and a bunch of Dwarves! Let me through, you lot, get me my horse. I'm going to the King with this!"

"You will stay, my lord, for I am not yet done with you," said Helmwyn coolly. She gestured to the guards, and they politely yet firmly blocked Wulfhere's way. "Whilst I commend your eagerness to go and see for yourself what goes on in the Westfold, I must advise you against this course of action. The King is a generous man, and free with his love and trust; but when that trust is betrayed, he does not forgive. I, on the other hand, neither love nor trust you, but if you agree to my terms, the King need never be troubled with this matter."

"The King and I were brothers in arms, so don't be too sure of yourself, young lady!" roared Wulfhere.

"Oh, you were, were you? And yet you come armed into the King's hall, and speak rudely to the King's daughter, and would cheat the King of your service." The Dwarves sensed that the lady's simmering anger was about to come to a boil; and Dwalin and Hogni, who sat with her, nudged Snorri and gingerly pushed back the bench to let her rise.

"I offered you the hand of friendship, my lord," said she; "though you are blinded with pride and will not see it. But I shall tell you what my other hand holds: it holds the King's sword!" and now did she raise her voice. "The eyes of the King may be on the Westfold at present, but do not _ever again_ think that the House of Eorl is blind, or idle. To rule is to serve, my lord; and should you prove unworthy, your rule shall be stripped from you. Do you understand me now?"

Wulfhere tensed. He was suddenly very much aware that the guards surrounding him carried spears. He glared at the lady, but her face was stern as steel.

"What do you want?" he spat. "My balls on a plate?"

"I told you. Wood. Men. Coin. _Loyalty_."

Thorin grinned. He was enjoying this.

Wulfhere stood there fuming, but said nothing. He was outnumbered, and he had learned that bluster would not work; but Helmwyn doubted whether he were truly cowed. She sat down again.

"I am glad we could discuss this, my lord; but now, if you don't mind, my guests and myself have work to do. Thank you, Osric. The lord Wulfhere is leaving," she told the guards, and looked pointedly at the map while Wulfhere cursed and stormed out of the hall, and the steward scuttled gratefully away with his ledger.

* * *

Helmwyn had laid her hands flat on the table, but the Dwarves could see that they were shaking with anger. "I'll have some of that ale, Master Dwalin, if you'd be so kind," said she, and Dwalin poured her a cup, which she drank gratefully. "I must apologise for this scene, Masters, but I fear it was long overdue."

"Nothing to apologise for. It was fun to watch," said Dwalin, and the others concurred. After all, she had given them a jolly good show of authority – for a woman. Helmwyn raised an eyebrow, and let it pass.

"And thank you, Master Snorri, Master Balin, for your support."

"It was a pleasure," said Balin. "Can't stand arrogant swine like him."

"You showed him," said Snorri encouragingly.

"Oh, I do not think he is beaten," said Helmwyn sombrely.

"If he is wise, he will heed your warning," said Thorin.

"But if he is not?"

"Then he must face the King's displeasure."

Helmwyn took another swig of ale. "At this time, we have need of every man in the Westfold. I do not wish to send the King's men to fight their brothers on account of this lord. Let us hope it shall not come to this."

"An open confrontation will cost him more than compliance," said Thorin.

"I hope his pride will let him see that." She drained the cup. "Holy Hunter, how I hate this."

"What mean you?"

"Anger. It is a show of weakness."

"I disagree," said Thorin, refilling his pipe. "I find it sharpens the senses and focuses the mind."

He looked so poised and controlled as he said that; yet Helmwyn sensed the power behind his brooding exterior, and wondered what he must be like when roused.

"And what makes _you_ angry, my lord?" she asked.

"Me? Oh, but I am angry all the time," said Thorin with a faint smile. "Though it is not a hot anger. I do not forgive and do not forget the wrongs of my people. It drives me onwards."

"Some would call that honour, and resolve, and memory."

Thorin considered that. He gave Helmwyn a searching look through the pipe-smoke. "Is there any difference, I wonder?"


	8. Chapter 7

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 7

The following morning, while the Dwarves were breaking their fast, the lady Helmwyn appeared, dressed as a Rider and girt with a sword. Dwalin nearly choked on his porridge _(1)_. She was in high spirits, and wished them all a good morrow, and gave orders that the Riders ready themselves, for she was eager to depart. She joined the Dwarves at the table, and told them of the ride that lay before them.

"Today we ride for Lindburg," said she, "for there dwells my kinsman Telramund, the Lord of the Westfold. It lies not far from Helm's Deep, and thither shall we ride tomorrow, that you may see the fastness at last."

Dwalin's spirits sank at the prospect of more riding.

"Come, Masters!" said the lady at last. "We must ride if we wish to be in Lindburg by nightfall!" and with that she rose, and they rose with her out of courtesy. Dwalin had not even finished his breakfast. But the lady had eaten even less, and he wondered how she could manage on an apple, an egg and a slice of black bread. He hastily wolfed down a few more of slices of ham, and pocketed some oat biscuits for the road. Let's hope they have proper food in that Lindburg place, he thought. He braced himself and followed the others to the stables.

The stables of Edoras were magnificent, more splendid indeed than many of the dwellings they had seen; for the Eorlingas held their horses in high regard, and their horses were finer than those bred by any other people. But for the Dwarves they had found ponies; but since those ponies were to ordinary ponies what the _mearas_ were to other horses, the Dwarves were content. The lady also made sure that they were given leather capes, for it rained often in the Mark, and without a cape their ride would be a miserable one.

Helmwyn greeted her horse like an old friend. It was a tall grey beast, and had the most knowing expression the Dwarves had ever seen on a horse. "He is a smug old thing," said she affectionately, "but he can keep his head in a fight." Regin asked what the horse was called, but the lady merely smiled, and did not answer. _(2)_

When she saw all were ready, she mounted up, and the horns were sounded, and they set off and rode down the path and out of Edoras, and the cheers of the people went with them.

Soon they were riding swiftly along a well-marked road that led north-westward. It was a bright morning, but the wind was strong; indeed it seemed the wind never abated in the Mark. The grass was rich and dew-soaked, and the mountains marched slowly past on their left; and even the Dwarves were beginning to feel a joy in riding through this fair open country. But soon enough, it began to rain, and their enthusiasm was dampened; but the lady raised her hood, and laughed, and rode on.

They allowed themselves a few short rests, although these were mostly for the sake of the Dwarves, for the Rohirrim and their horses counted that no great distance. At noon they sat in the tall grass and shared a cold meal of bread, cheese and dried meat. The Dwarves wondered whether this were horse, but thought it better not to ask; but it was lean and good, and they ate it anyway.

The lady Helmwyn sent some Riders ahead, to warn the lord Telramund of their coming. She told the Dwarves a little more about Lindburg, and said that it was a fair place, and that she was fond of it indeed, for she had spent much time there as a girl, and liked to do so still; for the lord Telramund was wedded with the King's sister, the lady Ortrud, and they had ever welcomed her in their home, and loved her as a daughter.

After noon they set off again, and something dawned on the Dwarves that they had not fully realised before: the lady was not merely being escorted by the Riders, she was leading them. For a woman to dress as a man for travel, or in times of peril, had become common enough among their own people, out of necessity in their exile; and thus her attire had not surprised them overmuch. But for a woman to lead a band of soldiers, that was something else altogether.

* * *

Riders were seen in the distance, approaching towards them; and Helmwyn sent out scouts. When they returned, they announced that the King was returning to Edoras with his Riders, and she rejoiced and hurried on.

The two _éored_ met on the road, and the Riders greeted the King with cries of _'Léofa!'_; and the lady Helmwyn rode up to her father. His beard was white, but he was a mighty man; and he smiled widely when he saw her. "Well met, my daughter!" he cried, and they dismounted; and the King removed his splendid helm, and kissed his daughter on the brow.

"Father," said she, and smiled, "I am glad to see you safely returned."

"Your scout tells me you are riding for Lindburg. Were you getting restless all alone in Edoras?"

"Aye, Father; but if I am restless, it is with joy! Behold, Amleth returned from his errand, and brought us long-expected guests!"

She turned, and the Dwarves, who had also dismounted, came to stand before the King.

King Brytta laughed to see them, and went to clap every single one of them on the shoulder. "Well met, I say to you too, Masters! This is merry news indeed. I must admit, I thought good Amleth had been sent on a fool's errand, and that your people existed only in songs. But my daughter was adamant, and I could not deny her, so grave was her request. But to see you now, living and strong under the sun, is a great joy and comfort. My daughter has great hopes for you, and so do all my people."

"Father," Helmwyn told him, "the Dwarves have done us a great honour indeed; for here is Thorin Thráinsson, the prince of their people. He and his companions have fought long and valiantly against the Orcs, and we could not wish for better help."

"Orc-slayers too?" the King beamed, showing his even, white teeth. "Then, my lord, you and your companions are twice welcome in the Mark!" he roared, and clasped Thorin's unresisting arm. The Dwarves were a little taken aback by the King's bluff and familiar manner, but they couldn't help liking him.

King Brytta turned again to Helmwyn: "Well, my child, I shall leave you to it. Are you intending to stay in Lindburg?"

"Aye, for a time. I shall be needed there."

"You are needed in Edoras too! But you are right, the Westfold requires all of our attention. I shall ride out again soon enough, and see you then, my dear. In the meantime, promise me you'll take good care of yourself."

"Aye, Father, I will do my best."

"See that you do! And if your best isn't good enough, tell Telramund he shall answer for it!" He was teasing her, for he knew that she chafed at his concern.

"I would answer for myself, Father, and thus shall I make doubly sure of my own safety."

"As you will," said he, and kissed her on the brow once more. It was plain she was the apple of his eye.

"Father, there is one thing I must warn you about. Beware Wulfhere. He was most displeased that I stuck my nose in his affairs."

"Wulfhere, that old rascal! Worry not, my daughter, his bark is worse than his bite." Helmwyn shook her head. "Fare thee well, child! And you, masters!" He re-mounted, and called to Helmwyn: "Farewell! Kiss your aunt for me!" and with that, he rode away to Edoras, and his _éored_ followed in a thundering of hooves.

Helmwyn and the Dwarves got back into the saddle. "An impressive man, that King of the Mark," commented Balin.

"Huge personality," said Dwalin, which, coming from him, was a great compliment.

"Aye, he has a great and generous heart, and the people love him," said Helmwyn with a fond smile. Plainly, so did she, though she found him too generous at times.

* * *

The sun was setting when at last they reached Lindburg. The home of the lords of Westfold lay in a sheltered vale at the foot of the mountains; and it was a fair place indeed, for the surrounding hills were gentle and sloping, and there were trees and orchards and beehives, and a golden haze lingered in the sky above. There were many houses and buildings before the hall, for it seemed a market town had sprung up there; but there were great stables, and barracks for many Riders, and about it all there was a wall.

Folk greeted them as they rode through the gate towards the hall. It was a busy place, and seemed prosperous; but Thorin noticed that every farmer and every craftsman bore a weapon. They crossed another gate, came to a green stretch of grass before the hall; and there was a fountain, and beside it stood a tall old linden tree, its leaves edged with gold in the last rays of the sun.

They left their horses at the stables, and when they walked back to the hall, the lord Telramund had come out to meet them. He was a tall, lean man, with grizzled hair and a weathered face, and an air of quiet authority. He smiled as they approached.

"Helmwyn, child! Your Riders bring glad news!" called he, and embraced the lady like a daughter.

"Aye, my uncle, and I bring guests!"

Telramund looked at the Dwarves; and if he found them strange, he did not show it. "I bid you welcome, Masters. I hope you will stay with us for a little while, for indeed we have long waited for you! Come, and sit at my table, and we shall talk."

He invited them inside, and they were greeted by Telramund's wife, the lady Ortrud, a strong, capable woman with the same bright smile as her brother the King. "Sit, Masters, and rest yourselves! For if what they say is true, you have a long road behind you, and much labour before you!" and at her bidding, food was brought, and ale.

"Let us not be hasty, my aunt, for our guests have yet to see the Hornburg" said Helmwyn diplomatically.

"We are looking forward to seeing it; for judging by what the lady Helmwyn has told us, it is very great" said Thorin.

"Aye, great it certainly is, though not as strong as it once was," said Telramund; and while they ate, he told them a little of the history of the Hornburg, and the great battles that had been fought there. And he told them of the proud defiance of Helm the Hammerhand, the unconquered warrior who defied the Dunlendings during the Long Winter. So great was his renown that the Deep had been named after him, as had many children in the Mark, including the lady Helmwyn. It was said that the Hornburg had never been taken, not while there were men inside to defend it.

"But the years have not been kind to it," Telramund went on; "and the Long Winter least of all. I fear that our clumsy attempts at mending it have only focused on the outer defences; but the inner walls were neglected, and have fallen into disrepair. But now, the Orcs are attacking from their hiding-places in the mountains, and our outer defences will not avail us."

"And then there are the caves," said Helmwyn.

"Aye, the caves. Perhaps you will find it more feasible to fortify the caves than to repair the Hornburg. They would make a fine refuge from the Orcs, and provide storage for our winter supplies; but I for one would be grieved to give up the Hornburg as beyond repair."

The lady Ortrud saw that everyone around the table was grave, and tried to lighten the mood. "Masters, if you do decide to help repair the Hornburg, I have one request to you. Do not make it too comfortable, or else my lord and husband will want to dwell there."

"It was ever the seat of the lords of Westfold, my lady," said Telramund.

"Aye, my lord, and it is a grim, cold place that only sees the sun at noon, so high are the cliffs on either side," she teased him, and it was plain that those two were fond of each other, even after long years together. But the lady Ortrud had been a shieldmaiden in her youth, and knew well enough the reality of war. She spoke to them now in earnest.

"Masters," she said to the Dwarves, "I am confident the people of the Mark will be able to withstand the Orcs; for they have always lived with raids on their borders, and every farmer knows how to swing a sword; aye, and the women and children too. But they cannot fight on an empty belly. The Mark has known famine before, but I would not see our people suffer that again. Help us but strengthen one place, where we may keep stores, and we shall take care of the rest." The lady Ortrud spoke passionately, and her fierce green eyes were shining. "You will not find us ungrateful. I know the King well, for he his my brother, and you will see that he is as open-handed as the tales make him."

"Aye, my aunt, and that is I why fear it is I who must settle this, and ensure that there be still some gold in the vaults when the summer is over," said Helmwyn with a wry smile; "for the King is generous to a fault."

A silence fell, and Thorin felt torn between honour and necessity; for if he had come on this venture hoping for gold, he understood the plight of the Mark only too well, and wished to help. "I fear the three of you drive a hard bargain," he said, "as indeed does all the Mark, for your welcome has been a courteous one; and indeed few better than us Dwarves understand the relentless enemy you face. I beg you, let us speak no more of this until we have seen the fortress, and its state of disrepair, and can judge how long the necessary works would take."

They agreed on that; and though Balin looked sharply at Thorin, he said nothing. They talked of other things, but Thorin sat in silence, half-listening to the others, busy with his own thoughts. After a while, the Dwarves noticed a young girl with freckles skulking behind a pillar, watching them. She would peep out of the shadows, only to dart back again when she saw she had been noticed. The lady Ortrud called to her: "Ortlind, come out and join us. There is no need to be shy. These are Dwarves, and they will not bite" said she, and shot a bright smile at Dwalin, who blushed. But the girl did not come out, and ran off instead.

"That was our daughter," said Telramund with a wide grin. "Do not be offended, I pray you; she is a shy thing, and wary of strangers."

"Yet she cannot resist having a peek at them," said Ortrud. "She will grow out of it. You used to be like that, after all" said she to Helmwyn, "and you didn't turn out too badly."

"Have you tried giving her a wooden sword yet?" asked Helmwyn. "You gave me one when I was about her age. It certainly helped me communicate." They all laughed at that; but Helmwyn sat quietly smiling, and sipped an infusion of linden-blossoms, for she slept fretfully. Thorin wondered how she had been as a child; probably grave-eyed, and grown-up beyond her years. Like all the children in the Mark, he reflected.

Soon after she wished them all a good night, and retired; and the lady Ortrud rose to check that the Dwarves' sleeping quarters were ready, and Dwalin's eyes followed her out of the room.

"Mahal's hammers, what a woman!" said Dwalin, making sure Telramund was out of earshot. Thorin raised an eyebrow, and smiled, and shook his head.

* * *

_(1) __Now, even though she may be too tall and quite lacking a beard, a handsome young woman wearing close-fitting leather garments is bound to make an impression on even the stoniest of Dwarves._

_(__2) __This was a bit of an embarrassment. The horse had once been called something sensible, but now only answered to 'Wís-bráec'; that is, 'Smartypants'. Helmwyn's brothers had called her that until she was big enough to kick them where it hurt, and the name had stuck to the horse. It _did_ rather suit him._


	9. Chapter 8

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 8

The lord Telramund rode to his fastness in Helm's Deep the following morning; and with him rode the lady Helmwyn, the Dwarves, and a small company of Riders. The path took them around the foothills of the White Mountains; and the lord Telramund said that there was a shorter road, that led through the hills. But though these were but sparsely wooded, they were wary of Orcs, and would not risk using that road unless they were many, and only in broad daylight.

They had ridden for less than an hour when they rounded a hill and saw the Deeping-Coomb open before them, like a great gash cut between two shoulders of the Mountains; and behind the Deep there reared the snowy head of mighty Thrihyrne, their northernmost peak. The riders swept gladly down into the Coomb, and the Dwarves beheld the Deeping-Wall at last, curving across the chasm, and at its end the Hornburg, looking as though it had been hewed out of the rock rather than built by the hands of Men. It was a grim and forbidding place, but the hearts of the Dwarves were lifted when they saw it, for they had a love of mountains, and mighty works of stone.

They crossed Helm's Dike, and horns were sounded to greet their coming; and they rode through a great camp, for that was where the greater number of Riders were stationed who guarded the Westfold. As they approached, the Dwarves could see the mighty blocks of stone that the Sea-Kings had assembled, and how excellently they had been fitted. But they also saw that the fastness was old, even according to their reckoning, and weathered; and parts of it had cracked and crumbled.

They made their way in single file up the causeway into the Hornburg, and there dismounted. They were greeted by one of Telramund's captains, Grimwald; and he marvelled to see such strange visitors, but was glad of their coming.

Hogni set to work at once, and took out rod, rope and brass instruments; and Andvari and Regin went with him to begin surveying and mapping Helm's Deep. Balin joined them to take down the figures. Snorri had produced his notebook and was already devising more ingenious hoists and cranes to move and raise the stones. Telramund, Helmwyn and Grimwald showed Thorin and Dwalin around the battlements, and the Keep, and took them out of the Hornburg and up onto the Deeping-Wall, for they were warriors and had a keen interest in the defences of this place.

They walked the Wall, and Telramund pointed to the weak points and fallen stones. The Hornburg had stood there since long before the Northmen had settled in the Mark, and the years had taken their toll even on its mighty structure; but the final blows had been dealt by the Long Winter and the floods that had followed it. The ice had cracked the stones, and the swollen Deeping-Stream had drowned the foot of the Wall; and now the Wall was subsiding, and part of the inner battlements of the Hornburg had caved in.

After a while, Dwalin wandered off to explore on his own, and Telramund and Grimwald talked of the patrol rota for the coming week; but the lady Helmwyn remained with the lord Thorin, and waited warily for him to speak; for now surely would come the dreaded haggling over the terms, and his final decision as to whether his people would help or no. And though the Dwarves seemed glad in that place, and eager to set to work, she feared that all this yet might come to naught.

Thorin gazed long at the Hornburg, and at the Deep behind it where the stones had been quarried; but now his brow was furrowed.

"Well, what think you, my lord?" asked Helmwyn. "How like you the once-great fastness of Helm's Deep?"

"I like it well, my lady," said he; "but I fear this will be a great undertaking. Had I a year, and a hundred of my kin, I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water! But we do not have a year, and there are but seven of us, and only one of us is a skilled stonecutter." Now that he saw how great was the task, Thorin regretted agreeing to follow Amleth so light-heartedly. Not because he wished to dodge the task, but because seeing the Hornburg, he found it fair, and wished to do it justice. Indeed, he began to feel ashamed of the lightness, bordering on contempt, with which he had embarked on this venture, with only six ill-assorted companions.

"Now that I see the Hornburg, I feel we should have gathered more of my people, and better skilled with stone," said he. "But we were scattered, and your Riders looked long for us, and there was no time to seek out others, even if they could have been brought hither."

"Then we shall have to do without your one hundred stonecutters, my lord, just as we must do without your one hundred axemen. But you shall have half the men of Westfold at your disposal," said the lady Helmwyn, and pointed to the camp that spread before the Wall; "and I daresay some of them know how to wield a chisel, and can be taught, and overseen."

"Aye, that is the only way. But did you not say that your people did not build in stone?"

"Of course there are some stonecutters, though they are not many, and to your eyes their skills may seem crude. There must also be some men from the mountain-valleys, where wood is scarce, and folk build stone houses; though mountain-dwellers are few in the Mark, for we are horse-people first and foremost, and they were the first to fall prey to the Orcs. Perhaps there are even some miners, if any remain."

"That is well. Let all such men be called, and we shall see how many there are."

"It shall be done, my lord. Also, there may be skilled men still in the villages, too old to fight, or otherwise unable. They could be called hither."

Thorin nodded in assent. Helmwyn rejoiced, for it looked like he was going to agree; and spoke to her uncle and the captain, and told them Thorin's request that all those men skilled in stonework should be gathered. Telramund seconded that, and Grimwald made off for the camp.

Helmwyn and Telramund exchanged a look, and they were hopeful, but still cautious; and they went back to the lord Thorin. He was thoughtful; but then he asked them:

"What did you mine?" It was a natural question for a Dwarf to ask.

"Copper and iron," answered Telramund. "Not much, but enough to keep us in swords and spearheads. Most of my people are armed already, for in every household of the Mark, weapons have been handed down -"

A great bellow rang out in the Deep, like the roar of some monstrous beast. Thorin and Helmwyn froze, then looked around for the cause of the clamour. Thorin's hand was on the haft of his axe, and he was ready to fight, or flee, for he was reminded at once of the day the dragon came to Erebor. That day too had been a bright day, and he had been standing on strong battlements and looking out over fair lands. He shook off the memory and focused on the present danger.

The deep echoes boomed against the walls of the Deep, but there was now another sound as well. Helmwyn looked down from the Wall and saw that the men were cheering, and beating their spears against their shields. She understood, and laughed.

"What in Durin's name was that?" growled Thorin.

"That, my lord, is why it is called the Hornburg!" said she, and pointed to the top of the tower. Dwalin stood up there, and from afar, he seemed to be laughing and waving at them. They thought they heard him call "Sorry!"

Telramund was smiling. "There is a great horn built into the tower, to strike fear into the hearts of the assailants," said he. "It seems Master Dwalin was unable to resist."

Thorin let go of his axe, and frowned, for he had known too many real alarms to find false alarms amusing.

"So that is what those strange openings are for," he rumbled. "I knew they were a little large for drainpipes. It cannot rain _that_ much, even here."

"You should see the Mark in winter!" laughed Telramund.

But Helmwyn said: "In truth, I am glad to have heard it; for I had not heard it before."

"Indeed you have not," said her uncle, "for it never sounds but in the hour of great peril, and there are but few among our people with the lungs to wind it. It does make a mighty roar!"

Thorin saw the lady' delight, and the lord's, and that of the men, and of his companions; and indeed he sensed that there was a hope, a business and a purpose about this place. He too could not help but like it; for after so many years in the wilderness, he was glad to have good, well-hewn rock under his feet once more, and tall mountains behind him. Indeed, he liked this place a great deal better that the eroded heights of Ered Luin. The memory of old fear faded in the glad sunlight, and Thorin decided to talk to his companions; and if they felt as he did, then they would try and meet this challenge.

But then the lady Helmwyn said to him: "My lord, would you now like to see the caves?"

* * *

They took their midday meal in the camp before the Wall; but while the men around them talked and laughed and went about their business, the Dwarves sat and ate in silence, for they had all been moved by the beauty of the caves, and wished to dwell on the memory undisturbed.

'The caves', the people of the Mark had called them; and indeed they were caves, carved into the mountain over slow ages by the Deeping-Stream, which was now but a rivulet, but must once have been a mighty torrent of meltwater. The Dwarves had of course seen the sort of strange and intricate shapes that slowly form underground before; but nothing could have prepared them for the loveliness that lay concealed behind the grey and forbidding cliffs of Helm's Deep.

In the torchlight they had glimpsed translucent sheets of milky stone, and fluted pillars, and crystalline shapes that grew like flowers; and indeed some rooms seemed like the canopy of a lush petrified grove. But fairest of all was the great chamber, where the vast domed vault glittered as though with countless stars, and was reflected in the still dark waters of an underground lake.

The caves were the refuge of the people of the Mark in times of war, and they said passages led all the way into the mountains beyond. But those escape routes now meant peril, for Orcs were bound to find them, and would use them to raid their stores and harass the Hornburg. The Dwarves would have to map the caves, for they were vast and intricate; and they would need to secure the ways into the mountains, so that they could be blocked off or defended.

And the Dwarves felt a longing to set to work, but also a wistfulness, for having seen the caves, they would have rather dwelt in them and shaped them into the most magnificent halls, than made them into a fortified warehouse for Men. Thorin was already brooding on it, and hatching plans, thinking that if the works on the Hornburg went well, and the Orcs could be kept at bay, then perhaps the King could be persuaded to give them the caves. After all, they said he was a generous ruler.

And if there were copper and iron ore in these mountains, they could make a good living. There would certainly be gemstones. The Mark would be on their doorstep, and there were trade routes to Gondor. Perhaps trade routes could also be established to Ered Luin, if some of his folk remained there. By ship perhaps, down the Isen, and then by sea to the Grey Havens. It would mean dealing with those wretched Elves though.

Grimwald had given out the word that all men skilled in stonework were to assemble; and of these there were about two score, and also some carpenters, for they would need to build hoists. The Dwarves thought that they had enough men to begin with; for more might still be brought in, and the rest of the men could help with the hauling. And strangely, all of them seemed agreed to begin with the works as soon as possible. First, they would need accurate plans, and it was decided that Hogni should finish mapping the Hornburg first, and would then survey the caves.

In the meantime, they would also need tools, and Thorin asked for all competent smiths to report to him. There was a small makeshift smithy in the camp, but that would need to be expanded, and manned, to meet the demand. Telramund said there was a good forge in Lindburg, and that the labour could be divided, and Thorin welcomed his proposal.

When all was agreed, Hogni went off with Balin, Snorri, Andvari and Regin to continue measuring the stronghold, Thorin and Dwalin were left at a loose end, and wandered around the camp. It was well-ordered, and it seemed to them that the Rohirrim were organised and efficient, for they were a warlike people, and had known only short periods of peace. Indeed, they heard the clang of arms, and walked to an open area of grass that served as a training-ground for the soldiers. And there, among the sparring men, they saw Telramund and Helmwyn.

"You've got to be joking," said Dwalin, and Thorin thought much the same.


	10. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note:** This week, boys and girls, it's Dwarf Boot Camp! Just because Dwalin is everyone's favourite drill sergeant. _

_:-)_

* * *

**THE LINDEN TREE**

Chapter 9

The Lord Telramund was a seasoned warrior, and he sparred with his niece whenever he could, and was putting her through her paces even now. They warmed up with a few passes, but soon they were sparring in earnest, and it was plain that he had taught her, and that they knew each other well. He was taller and stronger than she was, but she was lithe and quick; and soon they were dancing a fierce and graceful dance.

Thorin and Dwalin watched the fight, and could see that she made the best of her stature. She adopted a defensive stance at first, parrying and appearing to give ground, but all the while preserving her strength, and watching; but when she saw an opening, she moved in inside her opponent's defences. It was a dangerous method, and the lord Telramund knew how she fought, and turned her blows more often than not; but still she was able to land a few vicious blows to unprotected areas.

"Not bad," said Dwalin after a while. "I wouldn't have thought it, but not bad. Not grounded enough, though," he added.

Thorin nodded. "Aye. And that sword's too long for her," he added, and the smith in him suspected that the sword was not perfectly balanced.

After a while the fighters stopped, and embraced, laughing. "It is always good to see you, child," said Telramund fondly.

"And you, uncle," replied Helmwyn.

"But why must you always try to fight dirty?" said he, now in earnest. "This sort of thing is perilous, as well you know."

"And why must you always fight honourably? I do not think the Orcs will have your style, or your courtesy." She smiled still, but her eyes had gone grave.

"Are you accusing me of being soft on you? Very well. Next time I run into some Orcs, I shall catch a few, and bring them back for you to practise on."

"That would be splendid." She smiled and hugged her uncle again, but it was plain that they had had this argument before.

"But why not ask our Dwarven friends?" said Telramund as he saw Dwalin and Thorin watching them from the edge of the training-ground. "Masters!" he called; "you have had experience enough with this foe, and I would hear what you have to say on the matter."

"So indeed would I!" said the lady. "Master Dwalin! Have you any suggestions that might improve my chances?

"Er," stammered Dwalin. "You fight most elegantly, my lady."

She grinned, and turned to her uncle: "You see, it seems I do not fight dirty enough!" Then to Dwalin: "Aye, I can dance well enough. But Orcs do not dance."

"No, lady, they come screaming at you waving spiky maces any old way."

She could see that Dwalin was reluctant, and decided to tease him.

"There is something I've always wanted to know, and perhaps you can give me the answer to this: would there be any point in giving an Orc a knee in the groin?"

"Helmwyn!" exclaimed Telramund.

"Do not be so shocked, uncle. It was aunt Ortrud who taught me that trick." Dwalin had flushed crimson up to his tattoos. "Well?"

"Wouldn't know, my lady. Never let them close enough."

"That is well. But now in earnest, Master Dwalin. You have fought Orcs many times. If there be aught you can tell me that might give me a slight advantage, I would hear it. For I am well aware that I would not last long in such a fight."

"Well, there is one thing…" He was clearly embarrassed. "You need to imagine you've got-… you need to be…well…closer to the ground, my lady." The words BALLS OF STEEL! were on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them down. He couldn't say that in front of a lady, even if he'd never, ever get rid of the mental image of Ortrud kneeing an Orc in the groin. "You put your weight too high," he explained. "You get away with it because you're usually fighting people who are taller that you, but it won't be like that with Orcs, lady. They come in all shapes and sizes."

Helmwyn listened to the huge Dwarf intently, and he forgot his embarrassment and fell back into his favourite part, that of the master-at-arms of princes. "A mêlée with Orcs, quite frankly, it's a mess. They come at you any old how, and they'll use whatever they can find as a weapon. If you keep your weight as it is-" He lunged at Helmwyn, and feinted, and pushed her off her feet. She fell with good grace, and got up again, and her eyes shone, for she was eager to learn. She took a defensive stance, and Dwalin came at her again, and again, talking all the while.

"The ground is your friend, lady. Use it as your strength. If you place your weight low enough, and spread it evenly, like so, it'll make it much harder to knock you over. And if you DO fall, it's not the end of the world, unless you're wearing your own weight in plate armour, but it looks like you people are sensible about that. The trick is to keep moving; so if you lose your balance, you fall into a roll _right away_, and your friend the ground will provide you with new footing; but you've got to react quickly." And he knocked Helmwyn to the ground once more, and she rolled away and rose once more, determined.

The lord Telramund stood beside Thorin, and they watched in silence for a little while. Then Telramund said:

"Do you know, I've been telling her off about her balance for years. It would be truly wonderful if your friend got her grounded at last."

"You've certainly come to the right person for that. We Dwarves are _good_ at grounded."

Telramund smiled, for he was glad that Dwarves could laugh at themselves, and this stern-faced Dwarf in particular.

"Sometimes it takes a new instructor to find just the right image," he said; and Thorin agreed, and wondered when Dwalin was going to let slip his favourite image - BALLS OF STEEL!

Meanwhile, Helmwyn had wanted Dwalin's advice on rolling with an edged weapon without eviscerating herself. He agreed that it was a useful thing to know, and he made her practice falling some more. She was grateful for the springy turf of the Mark, but did not complain. Instead, next time she rose, she bowed to Dwalin and asked him formally if he would consider teaching her, as she put it, the basics of Fighting like a Dwarf. Dwalin hesitated.

"Now lady, we Dwarves, we're compact, and hard to budge, and we like to keep the space around us clear. But you've a slight build, my lady, so there's no point in giving you a battle-axe." Her heart sank.

He gave her a long look. "But you're quick, and you can spot weaknesses, and you're not afraid to move in; and that's a pretty good start. I think you're ready to learn something slightly less…formal. Do you like the sound of that?"

She did. Dwalin grinned. "I knew you would. Now let's see what I can dig out for you in my bag of tricks."

This was even better that she'd hoped. He was going to teach her to Fight Dirty.

* * *

Dwalin talked Helmwyn through the motions slowly, and she would repeat them, and try a few variants, and then they would speed them up progressively, and finally they would improvise. Thorin and Telramund saw how absolutely intent she was. She did not rush headlong into the fight, nor did she get frustrated; she made sure she understood, then repeated everything methodically, so that her body might learn, and remember. For she was well aware that her chief flaw, besides her balance, was that she thought too much, and that the split second she always took to weigh her options was the split second she would not have.

Dwalin encouraged her tendency to strike vulnerable areas like the armpit, the groin, the hamstrings or the throat; for such areas were seldom well-covered, especially with Orcs, whose armour seemed intended for deterrence rather that actual protection. Even if a wound to these areas was not immediately fatal, it would weaken the opponent, and give her time to strike a second blow; or if he escaped, the opponent would be maimed, or bleed out within minutes.

In the end, they practised a series of moves that became her particularly well.

"Right, that's it. Duck, roll, and…HAMSTRING! Well done!" said Dwalin, and went down on one knee. "And now what would you do?"

"Slice your head off while you're down?"

"Aye, you could do that, but while you raise your sword, I'll have buried my axe in your ankle. See? Best to make sure the enemy is disarmed." She lightly whacked him on the forearm with the flat of her blade. "Yes, great. And now if you like you can cut my throat. Lovely! Right, let's do that again."

He attacked her, and she ducked and rolled and hamstrung him a couple of times, then she tried rolling to the other side, for a change. "Nice one!" called Dwalin.

Telramund watched, fascinated and rather worried. "I am not sure I approve of this style, my lord, but Master Dwalin has certainly spotted my niece's natural propensities. Do you think it is wise to encourage them, though?"

"Anything that can give her an edge in a real fight is worth encouraging, my lord. Your niece is right about this, that Orcs do not dance."

Dwalin decided to call it a day. "I can see you're getting the hang of it! You sleep on it now, and let it all decant. That was a lot of information on your first day."

"Aye, I shall sleep on it, and tomorrow I shall be black and blue from all that rolling around! But I thank you for your time, Master Dwalin, and would be very glad indeed to continue with this. I have much to think upon!"

"You think too much, lass. Don't think. Just do!"

Helmwyn wiped the sweat from her brow, and walked towards her uncle; she was flushed and panting, but beaming.

"Child, how I wish your aunt had seen this," said Telramund. "You would make her proud!"

"Thank you, uncle! No, don't hug me, I beg you, I am wearing my own weight in sweaty clothes. Just help me get out of this wretched hauberk!"

"When are you going to get some proper armour made?" said Telramund as he helped her pull her heavy mailshirt over her head. "It isn't as though you _have_ to wear your brother's cast-offs. You're always complaining about that thing. It's too big, and it slows you down."

"Well, I've taken your counsel at last, uncle. There's a beautiful, light suit of armour being readied in Edoras as we speak." She went to a water-barrel and splashed cold water onto her face. "But though I always curse this wretched thing, I suppose it keeps me strong. AND close to the ground. I ought to be glad of that!" said she, and laughed.

A little further away, Thorin offered mock congratulations to Dwalin. "My friend," he said, "you are an outstanding example to the young, and an education all by yourself. Durin's beard, you were teaching that girl to hamstring!"

"She came up with that all by herself! She's a natural. I wasn't sure at first, but the lass has got some nasty instincts. Did you see that?"

"She certainly seemed to enjoy hamstringing you. It was quite a sight," said Thorin.

"Aye. Great instincts. Pity she thinks too much."

"It takes some time to unlearn that," said Thorin with a smile.

"What do you mean? You always fought like a demon when you were learning."

"I meant the rest of the time."

"Oh that. That's not thinking, that's brooding. You can tell, because nothing new ever comes from brooding"

A circle of men had formed around the sparring-ground, curious to see what the large battle-scarred Dwarf was teaching their lady. Dwalin called out to them: "Show's over, lads! The lady's earned her break! Come back tomorrow."

One of the men replied: "Master Dwarf! They say that Dwarves are stout fighters, and we have seen but a glimpse of what you can do. Will you not show us your skill with an axe?"

Dwalin looked at Thorin. "What do you think?"

"Don't you need a rest?"

"Me? I'm as fresh as a daisy."

And with a fierce grin, the two Dwarves marched onto the training-ground, and unbuckled their weapons. Thorin held a sword in his right hand and a great axe in his left; and Dwalin took the two battle-axes that were strapped to his back, and greeted them as though they were old friends.

"You think you're ready for this, laddie?" he called to Thorin. "Haven't seen you practice in a while!"

"I'm certainly in better shape than you, old man!" Thorin answered; and they ran at each other.

It was a fearsome sight. Axeblades whirled so fast that the Men could barely see them; and if this were indeed sparring, they wondered what the Dwarves might be capable of in a real fight. Dwalin surprised them all; for though he looked like a huge axe-wielding maniac, he did not fight like a berserker, but in a controlled and extremely efficient manner. But the lord Thorin struck awe in the hearts of the watchers, for there was a grim light in his eyes; and as he parried, and spun, and attacked, each of his movements had a deadly grace and power. It took someone like Dwalin to match him; and as Helmwyn watched him, she understood how such a one could have rallied a hopeless army to him, and turned a rout into a sweeping victory by the sheer force of his will.

The clang of axes was the only sound above the hush of the breathless watchers; when suddenly the two Dwarves broke off the fight, and laughed, and embraced like brothers, and all around them remembered this had merely been practice. A chorus of cheers rose from the assembled men.

"I bow to you, Masters," said the lord Telramund, "for in truth I have never seen anyone fight like this!"

But Helmwyn looked at the lord Thorin, and said: "That was worth at least another one hundred axemen, my lord!"

Thorin held her gaze, then turned to look at Dwalin. He had gone to the men, and their smile paled as they saw the huge Dwarf marching towards them with a grin on his scarred face. "Right, you lot!" he bellowed. "Enjoyed that, did you? So how about you show _me_ something entertaining?"

"I daresay you shall have many more axemen's worth by the time Dwalin is finished with your men," said Thorin; "for if his hammer-blows do not break them, they will be as strong as tempered steel."

The Rohirrim were expert at fighting on horseback; but Dwalin decided they needed a little kicking into shape when it came to hand-to-hand combat, and so decided to apply the boot. Telramund went across to watch more closely, but Helmwyn remained behind with Thorin.

"I am a little ashamed, my lord," she told him.

"Why is that?"

"I fear I may just be wasting my own and everyone else's time, trying to fight competently."

"You need not be ashamed, my lady. You have been well schooled, and you are a fast learner. We are alike in this, that we like to watch and understand. Today you have learned some of Dwalin's tricks; tomorrow you shall put them to deadly use."

Helmwyn was grateful for his kind words, especially since they came from such an accomplished fighter; but she still felt humbled.

"But tell me, my lady, do your people earnestly expect their womenfolk fight?" asked Thorin, who found that the Rohirrim took this shieldmaiden business altogether too far.

"The women of the Mark fight when they must, although they are untutored," answered she. "Unlike the daughters of the house of Eorl, who are lovingly taught from a young age, but whom no-one truly expects to fight."

Thorin could hear bitterness in her voice, and gave her a searching look. "But your sense of duty commands otherwise, does it not."

"Aye. I do not train out of a love of battle or a desire for glory, my lord. If I had things my way, I should spend my days with books and songs. But the Mark is under attack, and the day might come when my people are beleaguered, and we must defend ourselves in earnest. I cannot sit idle while others die."

Thorin understood her only to well, and pitied her, that one so young and fair should feel the burden of duty so keenly. For he too shared that burden, and the line of Durin spared its heirs no more than the house of Eorl; and all of a sudden he thought not of his sister, but of his brother Frerin.

They stood in silence, watching Dwalin drill the men of the Mark. "BALLS OF STEEL, LADS!" he bellowed, all inhibitions forgotten, "I WANT TO SEE BALLS OF STEEL!"


	11. Chapter 10

THE LINDEN TREE

Chapter 10

That night when they had returned to Lindburg, Helmwyn bathed before the evening meal, for she had exerted herself greatly, and already had aches and pains just about everywhere. She sat back in the hot water and tried to unwind her knotted sinews. Her shoulders ached from the weight of that wretched hauberk; but then, they always did. She also saw bruising on her skin, and dreaded to imagine what her back looked like. Oh well, it had been worth it, and there would be more bruising tomorrow, and that would be worth it too.

Not that anyone was likely to care about the state of her back, except possibly her mother; and her mother was far away in Gondor. And although Helmwyn's relationship with her mother was fraught, she inwardly thanked her for the recipe she had sent for making mare's milk soap. Helmwyn was not vain, but she liked to feel clean; and so did her mother, who evidently felt that the Rohirrim were uncouth and had a great deal to learn from the refinements of Gondor. Helmwyn had liked many things about Gondor, but she was viscerally attached to the Mark; and so she welcomed the soap, and took pride in the many uses of horses.

She slipped on a plain gown and went to join the company in the Hall. The Dwarves sat with their heads together, and were studying the preliminary plans that Hogni and Snorri had made. They said that these were but rough sketches, but she still marvelled at their precision, for they put all the drawings that she had shown them the previous evening to shame.

Balin had taken out a small abacus, and with Snorri and Hogni, tried to estimate the required number of stone blocks to be quarried, and the amount of timber, tools, men and time required for the Hornburg alone. They were concerned about the Wall, and argued about whether to shore it up with brackets and props, or whether to take the subsiding section down and rebuild it on sound foundations. And they had not even begun to discuss what to do about the caves.

Ortrud and Telramund joined them, and the evening meal was served; and it was a merry evening, for all were still in high spirits from the bright, busy day at the Hornburg. Ortrud was delighted to hear that Dwalin had been teaching her niece to fight dirty, and demanded a detailed account. Helmwyn and Telramund supplied all the details, and Ortrud smiled brightly and commended Dwalin; but he blushed and looked down into his mug of ale.

Thorin decided to broach the subject of the caves while everybody was in such good spirits. "Lord Telramund," he said, "I must confess that my companions and myself were greatly surprised when you took us to see the caverns behind Helm's deep. For to your people they are merely a refuge; but to our eyes, they are as fair as the fairest dwellings of our kings – or could be, with a little work, though that is not what we came for."

There was laughter, and the lord Telramund answered: "I am glad that the stone of this country pleases you, my lord. And indeed, we too hold those caverns fair, though we would not dwell in them."

"Nay, but in earnest. Do you think the King would trade the Orcs of the White Mountains for a few Dwarves? For these are fair mountains, and I believe my people could prosper here."

At this, the smile died on Telramund's face, and Ortrud looked down, and Helmwyn seemed troubled; but what Thorin saw in their faces was not anger. They looked at each other, and at last Helmwyn spoke: "My lord, do you remember what I told you of there being but few mountain-dwellers in the Mark?"

"Aye, lady, you said it was because you were horse-people."

"That is so, but that is not all there is to the matter." She looked again at her aunt and uncle, and went on: "The reason why only a few scattered folk dwell in the mountains is…" She broke off, searching for the right words. "There is a dread in the mountains. It dwells below the Dwimorberg, but how far it spreads in the mountains, we do not know."

"There are reports, of pale figures writhed in mist riding through the high passes," said Ortrud. "And on such nights villagers bolt their doors, and do not venture out; but the dread is not in the mind of men alone, for horses also sense it, and are maddened." Her voice was matter-of-fact, and calm, but a fear danced in her eyes.

"It is said that they are the shades of Men, allied to the Dark Power long ago, and that they are cursed," said Telramund in a grey voice. "Every so often, a bold man will set off towards the Dwimorberg, his head filled with tales of treasure. None of them are ever seen again. They do not suffer the living to pass."

The Dwarves were sceptical, for they did not believe such tales; and even if they were true, the shades of Men held no dread for them.

"I see that you do not believe us, Masters," said Helmwyn; "but you have not been to this place. I have."

"What place mean you, Helmwyn?" asked Telramund. "Dunharrow?"

"I mean beyond the stones, up the path. I turned and ran when I saw the gate." Her aunt and uncle were staring at her. "I was eleven, and my brother Waldred had dared me," she said. "Of course, he was cowering by the stones, and never saw how far I went." She spoke lightly, but her tone was brittle.

Telramund was horrified. "That boy deserves a whipping! It was foolish!"

"I know that now," answered Helmwyn. "And that is why I say: the mountains are no place for the living."

"But what of the Orcs?" asked Thorin. "How do these shades welcome them?"

"Ill, I hope," said Telramund; "but should the two become allied, and the Orcs come south of Dunharrow…I fear the Mark would be lost."

"Come, let us not despair," said Ortrud. "The Dunlendings never got far into the mountains, and I doubt the Dead shall find the Orcs more congenial. Who knows, perhaps the passes about the Thrihyrne hold no fear. I for one should be glad to have Dwarves as our neighbours. But before we think on that, we must destroy the Orcs."

They drank to that; but thereafter the company was subdued, and the Rohirrim soon retired to bed, and left the Dwarves on their own. They went back to their maps and calculations, but exchanged significant glances.

"Superstitious lot, aren't they?" said Andvari, for whom the dark places beneath the earth held no fear whatsoever.

"Men. What d'you expect," snarled Hogni, measuring a length of wall with his compasses.

"Superstitious or not, this is a cushy job," said Regin.

"Aye. They're a decent bunch," said Snorri. "Polite."

"I'd settle for a bit less 'More wine, Master Dwarf?' and a bit more concrete talk about the terms of our stay," muttered Balin.

"Not to mention all this 'my lord' business," Andvari added.

"Even _we_ don't call you that," Regin told Thorin.

"Aye, and you're _lapping it up_," added Hogni nastily.

But Thorin was amused at his companions' suspicion, and shrugged it off. "I do not think it is flattery. That is simply their way." He lit his pipe in a leisurely way. "My friends, I understand your misgivings, for our years in the wild have made you mistrustful, and rightly so. But we are not now in the wild; and I for one am inclined to trust these people. They seem grave and courteous, and honourable; and I daresay they keep their oaths. You all saw for yourselves how the King's daughter thinks, in matters of fealty."

"You're the one who should have a care, brother!" Dwalin told Balin with a grin. "If you try and get more than your fair share of the bargain, I bet that little lady'll get all 'King's swordy' on you, too!"

The Dwarves laughed. Balin glared at his brother. "Ha ha. Very funny. I'll stick with 'Master Balin' then, thank you very much. AND with more wine." And with that they got back to work.

Thorin knew his companions liked to grumble, and thought nothing of it. He found that, on the whole, and in spite of a few of their quainter cultural traits, he rather approved of these Rohirrim, and their lady.


	12. Chapter 11

THE LINDEN TREE

Chapter 11

The first of the hard labour at Helm's Deep fell to the smiths, for there would be a need for woodworking and stonecutting tools; and Thorin directed them, and set to work himself in the small makeshift forge. Timber was brought in from the nearby foothills, and Snorri excitedly went about instructing the men how to construct the hoists he had designed – although Balin's and Regin's help was needed to translate Snorri's scribbled plans into something intelligible. Meanwhile, Hogni and Andvari chose where they would quarry the stones, and had a good long talk with the team of stonemasons that had been cobbled together, trying to evaluate their skills and to divide the tasks.

In truth, the Dwarves had some trouble grasping the organisation of the Riders; for they themselves functioned in an extremely disciplined and hierarchical manner - or at least they did, when they last had the numbers to form an army. The Rohirrim, on the other hand, seemed more like a militia than a standing army; and every man seemed to have come with his own horse and his own weapons. They would come when the King called the Muster; but since the Mark was now being constantly harassed, they could not all be on call all the time, for their labour was also needed in the fields and villages.

But the men of the Westfold seemed to be there on a voluntary basis, reckoning they could better defend themselves by mustering at Helm's Deep and riding out together, than by staying each in his farm. There seemed to be a loosely organised yet efficient system of rotation; and they knew the country well, and patrolled it tirelessly, and shared the knowledge they gathered about recent attacks and isolated farms.

Their chief weakness was the fact that Orcs attacked at night, when there was little the Riders could do save head toward a farm that was already burning. Some bands of Orcs also had some large wolf-like beasts that they used as steeds; and these were fierce, and swift, and hard to kill, but thankfully there were still few, and it was their scouts that rode them. So the Riders had taken to hunting with hounds, for they could pick up Orc-trails and follow them in the dark; but they were not as tireless as horses, and their barking alerted the Orcs. But the Rohirrim were brave, and hardy, and had been long accustomed to defending themselves from Dunlending raiders; and they would fight as long as it took.

* * *

Dwalin's lessons to the lady Helmwyn grew into a veritable training camp for the Riders of the Mark; for as there was a constant rotation of patrols, there was never any shortage of newcomers curious to observe the fearsome Dwarf up close. Dwalin announced that he couldn't be expected to mollycoddle every single one of them, especially if they kept rushing about on horses all the time, as he put it; so he picked a dozen of the more gifted fighters, and said he would teach them, and they could then train their fellows, and he could simply come and shout at them from time to time.

The Riders fought competently with spear and shield, or with swords and small axes. Well, what they called "competently", Dwalin found a little slapdash, for they chiefly swung their weapons around and yelled fiercely; but that wasn't such a bad approach when facing Orcs. He decided to bully them about that later, but for now he would to lecture them on aspects of close combat, using the lady Helmwyn to demonstrate.

"Now lads, the first thing to know about Orcs is, they've got no style. Oh, so you think that's funny, do you? Aye, they've got no style, but that doesn't mean they can't fight. If you think that, you're dead. They're unpredictable, and that's what makes them dangerous. At first. Because once you get used to how they work, you can prepare yourself, and turn pretty much anything they throw at you. My lady, if you'd step this way, please?"

And Dwalin proceeded to give them another demonstration of the importance of balance and good footwork. He gave a wonderfully entertaining impression of an Orc berserker, hacking wildly; and opposite him, Helmwyn did her best to stand her ground and dodge what she could. She did get killed a few times, but she stayed focused, and Dwalin was pleased to see that she had already grasped quite a bit of what he had taught her.

"So now it's your turn, lads!" yelled Dwalin at his group of Riders. "Come on, pair up, don't be shy. Who wants to be the Orc?"

He watched them spar critically. "Is that the best Orc impression you can give me? Looks more like a cute squirrel to me! All right, change over!"

He practiced a few more passes with Helmwyn, and at one point knocked the sword form her hand.

"Aha! This is an interesting situation. What would you do now?" he asked the class.

"Pick up a conveniently fallen axe!" cried one.

"Charge!" shouted another.

Dwalin grinned. "Well, you might want to do that if you're a big bloke like me; but for you stick insects," and that included the tall strong men of the Mark, "unless you've got some truly amazing armour, I'd advise always having some spare blades about your person. Now, it's not a good idea to fight with two blades if you're not used to it, and I strongly advise against trying. But in a mêlée, you may not even have the space to swing a sword, and a convenient knife in your boot can make all the difference if you're disarmed. So, don't use it unless you have to, but always remember it's there."

They all had at each other again, but this time bearing in mind the possibility of a second blade. Some of the men were already making merry use of it. "What did I say?" Dwalin shouted at them. "Save it until you've got no choice! Otherwise the surprise effect is ruined, and your attention is divided. It'll get you k- …there, what did I tell you?"

He went back to the lady, and after while he grabbed her sword arm and got her locked in a vise. "Aha! Now what would you do?"

"I might try stabbing you in the thigh with a dagger that I do not currently have" answered Helmwyn, "although I doubt that I could reach it. What could I do? Elbow you in the ribs? Would it advisable to head-butt you?"

"Hmm. If you were wearing a helmet, perhaps. But be careful with that, you could hurt your neck if you're not used to doing it. Head-butting is tricky, and unless you've a hard head like me, you're more likely to stun yourself that your enemy. The point is usually to break your opponent's nose; and the thing about Orcs is, they don't always have much in the way of noses. But they often do have those horrible rings they wear in their ears and lips and eyebrows and …cartilage. So one option, if you're faced with one of those, is just to grab the rings and yank really hard."

"An alternative to poking them in the eye."

"Exactly. And also if they come at you, you can use their momentum and just grab and _slice_. Or grab and _knee_" said he, demonstrating rather graphically.

Thorin would sometimes wander over from the makeshift forge, to see how they were getting on. If the work was going well, he would stop for a while, and walk among the men, giving them advice and corrections; and sometimes, he would pair up with Dwalin, and their combined skills would leave the Riders dumbstruck.

Helmwyn was as impressed as the first time she had seen them fight, and told Thorin: "My lord, I fear we have enlisted you and Dwalin for something that was not part of the bargain! Yet I am mightily pleased with what you are doing with our Riders."

"Do not worry, my lady," answered he; "after all, Dwalin and I make better fighters than stonemasons!"

But though the lady had grown fond of Dwalin, and trusted him, and did not mind him kicking her feet from under her, she dared not fight the lord Thorin, for she thought him fierce and terrible, and was in awe of his strength.

* * *

Thorin stood on the Deeping-Wall. This he did ostensibly to watch the carpenters at work, and the stonecutters beyond; but in truth he stood on the Wall because he liked it there, and his gaze strayed rather to the Mountains behind the Deep, or to the rolling plains before it. And as he stood in that high place, Thorin felt the sun on his face, and the wind in his hair, and felt strangely at home.

"Thorin!" Balin called to him as he came over from the keep. "Have you thought about the fees yet?"

"Well, it's hard to tell how long we'll need," answered Thorin. "If those valley-boys are any good, we might be out of here sooner than expected, for I have no doubt that Snorri's hoists will work wonders."

Balin chuckled. "To be honest, I'm relieved. I thought it was just going to be the seven of us and this ruin; but now it turns out that all these tall strapping lads will do the heavy lifting, and all I'll have to do is point them in the right direction! It certainly beats toiling away in the villages."

"Speak for yourself!" grinned Thorin. "Some of us have had to pick up a tool from time to time!"

"That being said, if you could find a moment to negotiate our fee…"

Thorin laughed. "Merely for pointing the men in the right direction?"

"There's an art to it. It takes a lifetime's experience and expertise."

"Do not worry, my friend. I shall broach the subject with tact and discretion."

"That would be wonderful," said Balin pointedly. "It would put the lads' minds at ease, and I should really like to be able to budget the coming winter. With enough gold coin, we might be able to move things along a little, back in the Blue Mountains. The work there has been dragging on for years."

"I understand. And I too should be glad to put an end to this vagrant life, and to move into solid walls at last. But do you know, I look upon this place, and find myself wishing that we were building our home here."

"Aye, I know what you mean, laddie. It's those caves, isn't it?"

"Not only the caves; it's these mountains, it's the stone of this country. Look at those peaks, how young and proud they are! And these walls, proper walls made out of proper limestone! Honestly, Balin, when did we last stand on battlements like these?"

Balin looked sadly at him, for he knew well enough when that had been. "More than forty years ago, back home." Home. He had not called the Blue Mountains that.

"Aye. But I care not what these Rohirrim say; if the works go well, I have a mind to go up into those mountains and see for myself if they be truly haunted. I do not fear the shades of Men."

"It's the Orcs you should worry about."

"To think of the price we paid to smoke them out of the Misty Mountains. And now we find them here!"

"It's a funny old world, and no mistake. Come on laddie, enough brooding. Those stones won't move themselves! The sooner we get started, the sooner we'll be out of here."

Balin walked away down the great steps into the Deep, and Thorin followed him reluctantly; but before leaving the Wall, he took a last look about him.

And the lady Helmwyn looked up in that instant and saw him standing there, and thought that he looked commanding, as though he belonged on tall battlements, surveying the lands beyond.


	13. Chapter 12

THE LINDEN TREE

Chapter 12

That evening at table, Ortrud asked Helmwyn if she could be spared at the Hornburg in the following day, for she needed her help with the running of the estate. Helmwyn was loath to forgo her weapons training, but after all, she had also come down to Lindburg to make herself useful, and agreed to review the estate's finances.

"I must commend your prudence, my lady," Thorin told her. "Among my people, it is unusual for one of the royal house to have such a hands-on approach to stewardship." This was certainly true as far as Thorin was concerned. Ever since they had settled in Ered Luin, and there had been anything to steward at all, Thorin had been more than happy to delegate in these matters, leaving Balin to keep an eye on things.

Helmwyn shot him a wry smile. "Among my people, it is unusual for one of the royal house to be able to read and write, beyond what is needed to sign one's name. And so I feel it is my duty to keep an eye on things; and I would not put my whole trust in scribes and stewards if it can be helped, lest there be more _oversights_ like the one concerning the lord Wulfhere."

There was a shocked silence from Dwarves; for the written word was highly prized in their own culture, and even the meanest craftsman was literate. They had seen Helmwyn with books and scrolls in Edoras, but thought nothing of it, so natural did it seem to them; but now it occurred to them that there were no papers about the place, save those that they had brought themselves.

The people of the Mark did have commercial records of sorts, and after dinner Helmwyn sat down with a collection of scraps of parchment, wax tablets, wooden labels and carved bits of bark that seemed desperately haphazard to the Dwarves, and tried to make them all add up. Balin saw that Helmwyn looked sullen and put-upon, and tentatively asked whether she had heard of double-entry bookkeeping. She had not; and when he scribbled a demonstration on the back of a piece of parchment, Helmwyn's face brightened. Indeed, had Balin not sat across the table from her, she would have picked him up and hugged him.

"Master Balin," said she, "I should be glad to try this method of yours; and if it can do anything to relieve the misery of this wretched paperwork, you shall have a friend for life in me!"

Balin was a little startled by her delight, but also quite pleased. When he was satisfied that she had grasped the idea, he left her to it, and went back to his companions. Balin was shaking his head. "How _do_ they manage, these oral cultures?" he muttered. "If you ask me, it's hardly surprising there's a famine every couple of years."

Dwalin felt he had to stand up for the Mark. "That's unfair," he said. "They've got Orcs."

"Aye," said Thorin darkly. "Our Orcs."

* * *

Thorin walked out of the hall, and settled in his favourite spot under the old linden-tree to smoke his pipe in peace and quiet. He needed to get away from the others once in a while, to be alone with his thoughts; and the others knew him well enough to let him be.

His old burden of loss and discontent was ever with him, of course; but all in all things were looking up, and he was glad of this venture to the south. The people here were forthright and hardy, the land was starkly beautiful, the work was satisfying, and his companions and himself had been shown more courtesy and appreciation than they had ever received at the hands of Men during their exile. Thorin was sleeping better, too.

He leaned back against the bole of the tree, and let the tobacco soothe him; and he took in the sights and sounds and scents of Lindburg in the evening: dogs barking, the smell of cooking-fires, lights inside the houses of Men. People here led busy, contented lives; and Thorin envied them, for they were rooted in the soil of this country, and felt at one with it.

And suddenly Thorin realised how much he longed for Home.

But home was not truly home, not to him; for though his wandering steps had brought him thither, in his heart and blood and bones he longed for another place. And that place he would never see again, save in memory only; or if he ever did, Thorin feared that he would find it so defiled and broken that it could never become Home again.

He looked upon the vale of Lindburg; and in spite of the dangers that beset the Mark, there was feeling of peace about that fair place. The air was mild, and the leaves of the linden tree rustled, and the land welcomed him; but Thorin knew with bitter certainty that he did not belong there; and that the place where he belonged was no more.

Thorin hung his head, and exile weighed heavy on his shoulders.

* * *

Helmwyn's head was filled with stores and taxes and revenues; and ever present in her mind was the concern for the dispossessed, and how much coin and food could be set aside for them. There would be more this year – there always were. The estate's accounts were hopelessly confused; but whether it were illiteracy, incompetence or barefaced cheating that was to blame for this, she did not know. Probably a mixture of the three. She would need to have words with the steward.

She gave up after a while, and came to join the company. "I shall do the rest tomorrow," she announced; "but for now, I need a drink, else I shall murder someone!"

"Do not mind her, paperwork always puts her in a foul mood," said Ortrud, handing Helmwyn a cup of ale.

"Fear not, I shall save my foul mood for your steward," said Helmwyn, and gratefully accepted the drink.

She sat down next to Snorri, and took an interest in his perpetual doodling. Snorri was delighted of the attention, and proceeded to show her a wide array of fantastical designs, which he commented on with great enthusiasm. Helmwyn nodded appreciatively, though in truth this was entirely beyond her. She shot Balin a questioning glance, and the look on his face told her that Snorri's designs were beyond any of them.

"Oh, and here is a new improved design for your sawmill," Snorri chattered on. "How do you like it?"

Helmwyn considered the monstrosity of gears and cogs and levers. She must have looked aghast, for Balin came to her rescue: "I think the lady liked the old, unimproved design better."

Snorri blinked behind his eyeglasses. "What, really?"

"Much as I would like to bankrupt the lord Wulfhere," said Helmwyn, "perhaps we should stay with the simpler design."

"It's a question of maintenance," said Balin reassuringly.

"Oh well. Suit yourself," said Snorri, and went on doodling.

Helmwyn and Balin exchanged a grin.

"Pardon my asking, my lady," said Balin; "but I am curious as to how come you did learn to read and write, if it be so unusual."

"The circumstances _were_ rather unusual, for that too was Gandalf's doing, if you must know."

"Him again? My, my, the man _has_ been busy. How did that come about?"

"Do you really wish to know?"

"Go on, Helmwyn, tell him," said Ortrud. "It's a sweet story."

Helmwyn resented that, for she hardly wished to be thought of as sweet. "Oh, very well," she relented, and poured herself some more ale. "You must picture Gandalf, Master Balin. He is not unlike you in appearance, but very tall, and with a booming voice. He came to Edoras once when I was a tiny child. Of course, I should have been in bed; but I was curious of the old man, and crept back into the hall to listen to what the grown-ups were saying.

"They talked of arms and policies, and of strange lands with stranger names, and of mighty lords and fearsome enemies; and of course I did not understand any of what was said, but I was rapt. Gandalf saw me peeking from behind a pillar, and bade me come closer. My father wanted to send me back to bed, but I stood there, as earnest as a child can be, and told the wandering wizard that I wanted him to take me on his journeys, so that I too might see the strange and wonderful lands he had spoken of.

"The assembled lords laughed, but Gandalf gave me a searching look, and told me in a kindly voice: 'I cannot take you with me, for I have need of haste, and my errand is not without peril.' He saw my disappointment, and went on: 'But if you really do wish to learn about far lands and strange peoples, you may read about them in books. With books, you can travel to the farthest corners of the world without any danger; and you may also travel in time, and learn of the deeds of great folk long ago. How would you like that?'. I said I would like that very much."

Thorin had wandered back into the hall. His heart was heavy, but he was pleased at least to see that Balin seemed better at ease with their hosts. He went to sit with the others, as Helmwyn went on:

"And so Gandalf told my father, 'My lord King, I believe this one should be taught her letters, if you would heed my advice; for I'll wager she will put them to good use.' My father failed to see the point of Gandalf's request, but he trusted him, and valued his counsel; as for my mother, she approved, of course. And thus was I taught to read, while my brothers learnt to swing a sword." She took a sip of ale. "I suspect the King thought it was as good a way as any of keeping me quiet, while I was too small to ride; and my mother thought it would make me _ladylike_, and temper my Eorling blood." Helmwyn wore a wry smile, but there was a bitterness in her voice when she spoke of her mother.

Balin was amused. "I wonder whether this Gandalf had accounts in mind when he gave that counsel."

"Accounts were certainly not what _I_ had in mind! But I am grateful to have been taught this skill; and if it can be used to help the Mark, so much the better."

Thorin sat nursing his drink, taciturn and watchful; and he began to brood about this Gandalf character, and about the workings of chance. He reflected that none of them might have been there in that moment, but for the fact that some years ago an old man spoke kind words to a child. It was a tenuous cause, and yet, as its consequences uncoiled down the years, it may well have brought about a change in the fortunes of the Mark, and of his own people.

Thorin thought of what he could achieve in Ered Luin with a goodly injection of cash from the Mark. He could support his best craftsmen, and enable them to perfect their new techniques. Local trade would flourish, and he even toyed with the idea of opening a trade route to the Mark. Horses and cloth in exchange for Dwarven crafts – and Mahal knew these people had need of them! Perhaps in time he could make Ered Luin something to be proud of. Thorin grimaced.

The others saw him frowning to himself, but he kept his own counsel that evening, and did not share his thoughts.


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N:** _It's party time in Lindburg!_

* * *

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 13**

The following morning, the Dwarves found Ortrud and Helmwyn in the yard, clad in leathers and girding themselves.

"Ladies!" cried Balin, "is the prospect of the accounts so grim, that you must meet them with a sword in hand?"

The women laughed. "Nay, Master Balin!" Helmwyn called back; "but if we are to be cooped up all day with wretched paperwork, you must grant us this little amusement, at least!"

"Amusement, is it? That we shall see," grinned Ortrud. "Come, Helmwyn; pick up your shield!"

"Shield-training or accounts! It seems you are caught between a rock and a hard place, my lady!" called Balin.

"I shall tell you tonight which was the more gruelling. Good-day, Masters!" said Helmwyn, and turned to face her aunt.

The Dwarves went to ready their horses, but they could not resist glancing back to the training grounds. It was a sight in itself, these two handsome women, clad in leather and mail, and having at each other; but the fight was interesting, too. Ortrud was tough and confident, and had excellent technique; and though Helmwyn was quick and resourceful, she lacked her aunt's poise and mastery. Thorin and Dwalin watched with interest how the ladies of the Mark made use of their round shields and one-handed swords, although Thorin suspected that Dwalin's attention was equally divided between the sparring and the lady Ortrud's long, leather-clad legs.

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to stay and watch?" he asked Dwalin. "Or would you rather join in?"

Dwalin shuffled and mumbled something, and sloped off towards the stables.

* * *

When they came back to Lindburg that evening, they saw that the lady Helmwyn sported a split lip; and when asked, she explained merrily that the lady Ortrud had thoroughly bested her during shield-training. She smiled, and her lip started bleeding again.

After supper, a mixed company assembled in the hall; for minstrels had arrived that day, and there was going to be music and singing. Helmwyn was in high spirits, for she had known these minstrels for many years, and was always glad to see them. Things were not as good for them as they once had been, and they seldom ventured west of Edoras these days; but they knew they were welcome in Lindburg. And they were feted by the townspeople, for the people of the Mark loved song and held their bards in high regard.

The minstrels were given a place of honour by the fire, and the old bard began tuning his harp. The company sat around them where they could, on benches or on the floor, and the others stood in a circle around them; but the lady Helmwyn sat at a table with a sheaf of parchment, quills and ink, for she liked to write down the songs she heard. The old bard joked about this, as he always did:

"If you go and write everything down, my lady, there will be no more need for us poor singers!"

And she replied, as she always did: "There will always be a need for you, Master Halfdan! The words are merely the skeletons of the songs, but you and your fellows breathe life into them!"

"Then why would you want to keep all those skeletons, lady?"

"In order to remember, Master Halfdan; in order to remember!" And though he teased her about it, she had gathered a number of songs over the years, and was able to remind him of some lines that he had forgotten.

"Well, my lady, I have a new one for you tonight, so sharpen your quill!" And then he rose and addressed his audience: "Now hear me, all of you, for I shall sing to you of the deeds of Helm the Hammerhand!" and there was loud cheering and shouting, for everyone loved tales of the mighty Helm.

The bard sung in the language of the Mark, which the Dwarves did not understand, though here and there they caught words that resembled the Common Tongue. But the language was rich and rolling, and the bard had a pleasant, event tone, and was an accomplished storyteller; and judging by the reactions of the rapt audience, the song was a good one. The lay was long, but when it was finished, the company roared its approval. "That was a fine song, Master Halfdan!" shouted someone. "Let's hear it again!" and there was a chorus of cheers. The lady Helmwyn was pleased with that, for she had only managed to take sketchy notes for each stanza.

Halfdan bowed low. "I thank you, my friends. But singing is thirsty work! Has no-one a mug of ale for me?" There was laughter, and he was handed a drink. He gave them the lay of Helm again, and this time another minstrel joined him on a wide hide-drum; and the listeners clapped their hands, and the Dwarves could have sworn that, if they were to hear it a third time, they would have been able to sing along. When Halfdan had finished the second time, some men went to pick him up, and carried him around the hall on their shoulders amid the cheering.

Helmwyn had fleshed out her notes, and was now humming under her breath, trying to write down the tune. Balin peered over her shoulder, and saw that she used a notation system not dissimilar to the one Dwarves used, only more ancient and less sophisticated. Soon they were discussing the respective merits and origins of the two. Balin suspected that, like the runes their peoples used, both systems had derived from an Elvish source, but he shrugged, and gave Helmwyn some useful tips for writing down rhythm.

Thorin wandered over and picked up the harp that Halfdan had left on the bench, and plucked a few strings. But Halfdan had been set back on his feet, and eyed Thorin curiously.

"Do you play, Master Dwarf?"

"Aye, I do, though our harps are of a rather different make."

"Would you care to give us a song?"

Thorin shook his head. "That I cannot, for I fear your instrument will not give me all the notes that I require." And he went on to tell Halfdan about the system of levers dwarven harps had, to shorten the strings and raise them by half a step. The bard was extremely interested. "That sounds like it could spare me a lot of tedious re-tuning. Do you think you could show me how these things are made?"

"Snorri is the one you want for mechanisms," said Thorin and pointed out his short-sighted companion. "But if you like, we shall put our heads together, and see what we can do." The company was eager for more music, and started calling for Halfdan; so Thorin gave him back his instrument, and nodded to him, and walked away.

In truth, Thorin could have given them a song had he really wanted to; it would only have taken a little re-tuning on the harp. But his heart was not in it. The songs he knew and loved were not tavern-songs, suitable for a company of merry strangers; but songs of memory and honour, of lost realms and former glory, of battle and sorrow; and he had no desire to sing them now. But his mood was darkened, for such matters were ever in his heart; and retired to a corner to smoke his pipe, and gazed balefully at the glad company as he brooded on the wrongs of his people.

To his surprise, he saw that the lord Telramund had stepped forward, and was giving a boisterous performance of what he assumed to be a drinking-song. The company clapped their hands in time to the music, and Hogni and Andvari struck up and improvised accompaniment by hitting the table, their tankards, and Dwalin's armour with their spoons. Surprisingly, Dwalin didn't seem to mind this too much, for he was fond of music; and when Telramund had finished, he borrowed the fiddle and played a merry dwarven tune, earning considerable applause from those who knew him only as a fearsome warrior.

Helmwyn was especially fulsome in her praise; but Dwalin dragged her from her papers and to her feet, and was trying to persuade her to dance. She laughed, but was adamant in her refusal. "Nay, master Dwalin," said she. "I will dance with you on the training grounds, and on the training grounds only. I can give you a song if you wish, but that is all!" The company welcomed her suggestion with a chorus of cheers, and after a brief consultation with the minstrels, she fetched the words of the song from among her sheaf of papers, and the players started playing, harp, fiddle and fife.

It was a brisk, spirited tune, and the old bard sang the first verse; but then she answered him, and he answered back, and then she again, and it soon became clear to the Dwarves that the song was a boasting contest. Halfdan had a witty delivery; but the lady sang in a fine, strong chest voice, and struck warlike attitudes, and made the assembled company roar with laughter, even the Dwarves, who could only guess at the extravagant boasts she was making.

The players ended with a flourish, and the lady smiled, and wiped the blood from her lip, which had split again; and she sat down amid laughter and cheers on the bench where she had left her sheet of verse. She had not needed after all.

"That was a mighty fine song, my lady!" called Dwalin as she took a well-earned drink of mead.

"Thank you, master Dwalin! Though I fear some of the comic effect might have been lost on you. You see, in the last verse I claimed to have pulled off a troll's head with my bare hands."

"Oh no, you made that bit perfectly clear! Nice twisting motion, too."

"You are too kind." She gave Dwalin a mock bow, and took another sip.

The company's high spirits had not abated, and the called for the lady to give them another song. She protested a little, but then relented.

"What shall we give them, Master Halfdan? Something to dampen their spirits a little? I fear they are too merry already"

"How about the _Linden tree_, my lady?"

"Oh, not that, I pray you! That one shall not only dampen their spirits, it shall make everyone weep!"

"But you do it so well, my lady!"

It must indeed have been a particular favourite, for those who were close and had overheard the conversation started chanting "_The Linden tree! The Linden tree!_" until the whole room joined in. The lady threw up her hands: "Very well, the _Linden tree_ it is. On your head be it!"

There were cheers, but those where quickly hushed when the bard started a prelude of arpeggios on his harp. The lady wore a wry smile, but when she began to sing, her voice was soft, and warm, and clear. The tune was a simple one, but everyone present in the room, whether they knew the song or no, felt something tighten around their heart.

The fiddler picked up the tune after the first verse, ornamenting it with lilting accents, and when the lady began the second verse, the fiddle wove in and out of her voice in a plaintive countermelody. The third player had put away his flute, but now held his drum, and started beating out a slow, solemn rhythm, like a heartbeat. Helmwyn's eyes were closed, and every word she sang was coloured with sorrow, even to the Dwarves. For though she sang in her native tongue, they felt it was a song of love, and longing, and long waiting; and each thought of home, and of loved ones they had lost, or left behind.

The song seemed to mirror Thorin's thoughts, for he remembered the Erebor of his youth, so fair and so strong. He remembered mighty Thrór upon his throne. He remembered his mother. He remembered his brother Frerin, with his stout bow and laughter on his lips. He remembered Thráin, grim and powerful in his red armour. And he remembered that Erebor was rubble and ashes, and that Thrór had met a shameful end, and that his mother had saved little Dís from the Mountain only to perish from her burns; and he remembered that his brother had been slain, and that his father was half-crazed. Thorin hung his head.

The last verse came, and the drum and fiddle were silent, and the lady's voice faded to a whisper, and at last there were only the last notes of the harp, hanging in the air of the hall, along with a harrowing sense of loss.

There was a deep hush after the song ended, though it was broken gradually by sniffing, and the clearing of throats, and mumbled comments of approval. The Dwarves were looking distinctly misty-eyed; Snorri was blowing his nose, and even Dwalin had gone very quiet, and was studying the back of his hands with seemingly great interest _(1)_.

Balin cleared his throat. "I think I speak for all of us if I say that this was beautiful. Might I ask you what that song was about, my lady?"

"Oh, you know. Life and death, love and loss, home and exile. The usual things," Helmwyn answered lightly; but whether she was truly unmoved, or rather kept her feelings firmly in check, none could say. "I did warn you!" Helmwyn told the company; "it does that every time, you should know better!" And then to Halfdan, who seemed a little affected himself: "Can you think of anything that will cheer them, Master? I would not have the evening end quite so soon!"

And with that she rose and went to fill her cup with more mead, and sipped it in silence, while the fiddler struck up a merry tune in an attempt to gladden everyone's hearts. Her eyes fell on the lord Thorin, sitting on his own in a corner, smoking his pipe, with a faraway look in his eyes. She was about to return to her corner of the table and her pile of notes; but then, on second thoughts, she filled another cup with mead, and walked over to Thorin.

* * *

_(1) The back of Dwalin's hands was of course very interesting, although obviously to him they didn't have the same novelty value as to someone he would be, for instance, punching in the face. _


	15. Chapter 14

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 14**

"Would you like a cup of mead, my lord?"

Thorin emerged from his brooding, a little surprised to find her standing before him, offering him a draught. "Thank you, my lady, I would," said he courteously; and he took the cup from her, and raised it to her, and took a sip. The mead was strong, and sweet, and amber-coloured, like the lady's voice.

"My lord, might I sit with you?" she asked, "though perhaps you would rather be left alone; for indeed that is the place I withdraw to when I wish to sit by myself, and think. But now _you_ have withdrawn here…"

"Then sit with me, my lady, and let us be withdrawn together."

She sat down beside him, and for a while they stared into the fire in silence. He was in a strange mood, for the lady's singing had moved him, and his heart was heavy with much dwelling on the past; but although he knew not what he should say to her, he was strangely glad of her company. In the middle of the hall, the evening was beginning to be merry once more.

"You have a fine voice," he said at last.

"My people are fond of song," she answered simply.

"So are mine. But not all those who love song make good singers." Thorin indicated Regin, who had begun to sing tunelessly along with the music, until Andvari kicked him in the shins. They watched Dwalin, who was now trying to lure the lady Ortrud into dancing with him. It was quite a sight. They smiled at that; and Helmwyn winced, as her lip bled again, and she tasted blood and mead on her tongue.

She still felt a little shy of Thorin; for he was a lord of stern demeanour, and had about him a sense of hidden power. Yet she perceived no threat from him, only a deep sadness. She did not wish to anger him, or to grieve him, by questioning him about his people, for what little she knew of them already was painful indeed. But she did wish to know more about the Dwarves. After all, it looked like they would be her guests for a little while.

"Will you tell me of your home, my lord?" she asked him. "I should dearly like to hear more about the lost Kingdom under the Mountain."

Thorin seemed genuinely surprised by this. At first he tried to excuse himself with a jest.

"You would ask a Dwarf to tell you of the halls and deeds of his forefathers? Lady, you do not know your peril! For the fire will burn low and you shall fall asleep before I finish detailing my family tree; and indeed when the sun is high in the sky, I shall still be describing the doorway."

He looked into the lady's eyes, and saw that they were grave and earnest; and he sighed, and relented.

"You must know that I was but a Dwarfling when the dragon came, hardly big enough to lift a sword, let alone wield it. So it may be that my memories of the Mountain were made fairer by loss, and time, and the tales and songs of my kin." He paused, and took a sip of mead, and stared into the fire. "But I can still see the great gate, hewn into the side of the Mountain, standing grim and fair in the noonday sun; and thereupon stood heralds, and greeted the heirs of Durin to the sound of brazen trumpets when we returned. Often I stood on those battlements, and looked out upon the land, and believed the pride of my people and the strength of my kingdom would endure for ever." Thorin's voice trailed off, and Helmwyn did not prompt him, but waited for him to resume.

"Guarding the gate were mighty statues of warriors, axes at the ready; and inside there were more of the same, and they stood as high as the roof of the great hall itself." Thorin rubbed his eyes, as though to dispel the years that obscured his vision of that place. "I cannot describe it, my lady. I cannot give you an idea of the sheer size of it. Your Golden Hall would have fitted in it not ten times, but a hundred times, or more. And through it all ran walkways and pillars and stairs and bridges, all cut out of the living rock, and adorned with carved and gilded runes; and everything shone with the golden light of thousands upon thousands of lamps. Lady, it was never dark under the Mountain."

Thorin's eyes shone under his dark brows. "And there my people lived, and mined, and crafted, and traded. For many years we had peace, and wealth beyond count, and the friendship of Men. As for the Elves…well, let us say that we enjoyed their grudging respect, as long as our people were strong. But I wish you could have seen it, my lady: the great hall of green marble, and mighty Thrór upon his throne, and the light of the Arkenstone above him."

Helmwyn listened to Thorin's deep voice, and half-saw halls and corridors and passages of stone, splendidly carved and filled with treasure; and therein a crowd of industrious Dwarves, richly dressed and content. She looked at him, and saw that his eyes were fierce and sorrowful; and she pitied him for the loss of his realm and the plight of his people.

"You do make me wish I had seen it, my lord," she said at last. "Indeed, I cannot rightly picture anything so great and so splendid. All I can do is to imagine Mount Mindolluin hollowed out, and Mundburg somehow tucked inside it."

"Mundburg?" asked Thorin. He realised that his pipe had gone out.

"That is what we call Minas Tirith, the white city of Gondor," said she. "It is a great city, indeed the greatest I have ever seen, and yet it stands only on the spur of a mountain, when your city filled the Mountain itself…It must have been the labour of centuries to create such a place."

"It was founded eight hundred years ago, which is not that long ago by the reckoning of my people; but in that time, my kin made it a place of wonder."

Helmwyn was amazed. "My lord, I marvel that Dwarves should count eight centuries to be no time at all. It is but four hundred years since Eorl rode out of the north, and that time already seems to us to be shrouded in legend."

"Your people are young, my lady. Be glad of it! For a long memory is a heavy burden, and brings sorrow as much as pride."

Helmwyn said nothing, because she feared that any more talk of the Mountain would inevitably lead to talk of the dragon, and she did not wish to sadden him any more. But Thorin had no need of any prompt, for such thoughts were ever in his mind, unbidden.

They sat and drank their mead in silence, and listened to the lady Ortrud sing of the war against the Dunlendings. She recited rather than sang, but she did it with verve and ferocity, and they could see that Dwalin was watching her with rapt attention. The song finished, and there was cheering; and Halfdan called out: "Who would like a go? Anyone?" and Thorin stirred, and told Helmwyn: "Do you know, my lady, I have a mind to give them a song after all"; and with that he rose and stepped into the circle.

He was greeted gladly, and Halfdan asked him: "So have you changed your mind about our harps, Master Dwarf?" But Thorin replied: "Indeed no; but for what I have in mind, I shall require a deeper sound!" And he turned to his fellows and said: "Boys, give me a drone, will you?"

The Dwarves knew what was coming, and at once their faces turned grave; and Dwalin straightened up, and took a deep breath, and began to hum a low note, which resonated in his great chest. The others joined in, harmonizing above Dwalin's bass note, and a hush fell on the company, for all sensed there was a solemnity about the moment. And then Thorin began to sing.

A chill went through the assembled listeners. The lord Thorin's voice was dark and tuneful, and though he seemed to sing for himself, his voice carried around the hall. The sounds of the dwarven tongue were strange to the people of the Mark; but as they listened, entranced, to the deep voices of the Dwarves, it seemed to them that the song spoke of slow time, and stone pillars, and mighty halls beneath the mountains, and of great sorrow.

When the song ended, it was as though a spell had been lifted, and after a moment's hush, the Dwarves were given a warm round of applause. But now Helmwyn noticed that she had hardly dared to breathe while Thorin sang, and that the hairs on her forearms stood on end. She was dumbstruck; and it was just as well that he drained his cup, and nodded to her, and retired, for he had had enough of company for that evening.


	16. Chapter 15

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 15**

The works at Helm's Deep continued apace; and after a few initial blunders, and with Hogni's constant and hawkish supervision, the men of the Mark had begun to quarry acceptable blocks of limestone. The going was slow at first, but they were improving; and little by little, smooth new blocks were now beginning to fill the breach within the inner wall of the Hornburg.

On some days, the lady Helmwyn would ride to Helm's Deep, ostensibly to see the progress there in the lord Telramund's absence, when he had ridden out with an _éored_; but then she would spend most of her time on the training-grounds. On other days she would stay in Lindburg, and talk to the farmers and tradesmen who came to market; or else she would ride to neighbouring farms and homesteads. And to all, she said to take heart, and to ready themselves, and to set aside part of their grain and stores for safekeeping; for she was confident that by harvest-time, the Hornburg and the caves would be secure.

There were always several _éoreds_ patrolling at any given time; but now the sound of horns was heard in the distance, and the watchers on the walls saw that one was approaching even now, and sounded their own horns in greeting. Snorri had installed himself in the Keep, and Thorin and Balin were with him, poring over plans and mapping out the next stage of the works. As the horns sounded, they wandered out onto the battlements to see what the commotion was about.

"Oh. More Riders. What a surprise," said Balin. "You'd think they would have gotten used to it by now."

"Perhaps it's the King again," suggested Snorri. "They got rather excited last time he rode through."

"Surely he can't be back already?" said Balin.

"I do not think this is the King; but it must be some important captain," said Thorin. "Listen to them."

And indeed, as the _éored_ rode up through the camp, there was cheering, and loud cries of 'Walda! Walda!'; and when the _eóred_ came to a halt, the Dwarves could see that their leader was very tall, and powerful, and wore armour embossed with red (well, Thorin and Balin could see it; Snorri was so woefully short-sighted that he kept asking: "Riders? Where?"). Helmwyn emerged from the training-grounds, and ran to embrace the captain; and he, being so tall, picked her up as though she weighed no more than a child.

"Looks like the lady has a swain," said Balin with a twinkle in his eye; but Thorin frowned, and said nothing. ("A swain? Where? Am I missing something?" asked Snorri.) Helmwyn had taken the tall captain by the hand, and was leading him through the camp. "Right, fun's over; let's get back to work, boys," rumbled Thorin, and stalked back towards the Keep. ("What fun?" asked Snorri.)

A while later, they were still bent over Snorri's plans, trying to work out the exact dimensions of the required blocks of limestone, when, through the open door of the Keep, walked the lady Helmwyn and the tall Rider in the red armour. He was a truly magnificent specimen, with broad shoulders and a handsome face; and the lady was beaming. "Masters! Forgive me for disturbing your work, but there has come someone very dear to me, and I would introduce you," she called. Thorin rolled his eyes, and turned to face the newcomer with as stony an expression as only a Dwarf could muster.

"This," said Helmwyn, her arm linked in the Rider's, "is none other than Thorin Thráinsson, the prince and champion of Durin's folk; and here is Balin, and Snorri."

The tall man smiled at them and spoke: "It is both a pleasure and an honour to meet you at last; for Helmwyn spoke of your people a great deal, and had high hopes of your coming! You have my thanks, and those of the Mark"; and with that he bowed to them. Thorin acknowledged his words with a curt nod.

"And this handsome fellow," Helmwyn told the Dwarves, "is my elder brother, Walda, son of Brytta."

Well of course he was. "It is we who are honoured," said Thorin courteously. Now the Dwarves could see that he greatly resembled King Brytta in looks and stature, and he had the same bright smile. Well, Thorin and Balin could, and they bowed in turn; Snorri just nodded genially and tried to bow in the general direction of the voices.

"I see you are busy saving our beloved old Hornburg," said Walda to the Dwarves. "Then there is hope for the old lady still?"

"Aye, my lord, we shall make sure she lasts a few more winters!" answered Thorin.

"I look forward to seeing her progress! I shall ride back soon enough. But now I must leave. Until we meet again, my friends!"

Helmwyn walked her brother back to the door. "Will you not stay in Lindburg tonight?" she asked him.

"Nay," said he, "I would make haste, for I have been gone too long. But will you not come and visit us in Aldburg?"

Helmwyn laughed, and shook her head. "Nay, brother, for I am needed here."

"Farewell then, dear sister. Be safe." He hugged her once more, and she sent him on his way with a smile. "Silly boy," said she fondly, shaking her head.

"He must ride like the wind if he hopes to be in Edoras by tonight," said Thorin.

"Oh, he is not concerned with that. He wants to be back in Aldburg by tomorrow evening. You see, when they are not hunting Orcs, my brothers dwell in the Folde, so I see but little of them, for I do not like to stay there."

"You have more than one brother?" asked Balin.

"Aye, I have two. Walda, whom you've met, is a man of few words, and is easy company; but his wife talks for the two of them. Besides, they have a son, and I have no wish to play dry-nurse to the child! As for my other brother, Waldred, he has a mocking mind and a sharp tongue."

"Was he not the one who dared you to walk up to the Haunted Pass?"

"Aye, the very one! Though I love both my brothers dearly, I cannot abide them for very long." She gave a wry smile. "And of course, I would not risk meeting my husband's kin if I can help it; there's another good reason to avoid the Folde."

The Dwarves were surprised, for this was the first time she had said anything about being wed. Then again, these Rohirrim seemed to spend so much time riding up and down the land, it was a marvel they managed to raise families at all. "But what of your husband? Is he patrolling the Westfold with the other lords?" Thorin asked.

But Helmwyn laughed. "My husband died with an Orc arrow in his throat some years ago. I am in no haste to join him!" said she brightly. Whether it was fortitude or coldness, Thorin could not say; but he remembered that it was his people who had driven the Orcs south of the Misty Mountains, and felt a sudden twinge of guilt.

* * *

One evening as the Dwarves had stabled their mounts and made for the hall, Hogni drew his companions aside, and they gathered in a loose circle under the old linden tree.

"Lads, I was wondering," said Hogni, "why do we have to keep riding back and forth between here and Helm's Deep? Why shouldn't we just stay there?"

"Aye, I'm fed up with all this riding," said Andvari. "It's a waste of time, too."

"Quite right," said Hogni. "I say we take our stuff and go kip in the Hornburg."

"Or better still, in the caves," said Andvari.

The other Dwarves looked at each other for an awkward moment, but they did not greet Hogni's suggestion with the enthusiasm he would have expected. Regin conceded that the riding was tiresome; but although the Hornburg would normally have been a vast improvement on their usual circumstances, they had to admit that they rather liked it in Lindburg, and were reluctant to leave the place.

"What's the matter?" asked Hogni. "Have you lot gone soft? Want to stay by the nice comfy fire?"

"Yes, actually," said Snorri, who was happy as long as he had somewhere warm and well-lit where he could sit and draw.

"And I'm more than happy to be sleeping in a proper bed," said Balin, and Hogni snorted. "Oh, you may laugh at that, but just you wait till you're my age, and you'll see how important these things become."

"The food's good," supplied Dwalin.

"And there's music, and civilised conversation," said Thorin.

"Oh aye, I see," sneered Hogni, "the company of lords and ladies is all right for the likes of you. Well, suit yourselves. It's not like we're married. But I'll be kipping in Helm's Deep from now on."

"And so am I," said Andvari. "How about you, Regin?"

Regin, looked miserable, but he nodded. "All right, brother."

Hogni gave them a look, and walked away, and Andvari with him; and Regin trailed resentfully after them.

"What was that about?" said Thorin.

"Looks like the lads are feeling socially awkward," said Balin.

"Whatever for? Everybody has been extremely courteous and welcoming."

"Maybe that's the point. Maybe there's only so much 'my lord this' and 'my lord that' they can take."

"Well, yes, they address me formally, but I'm not going to complain about that. I'd rather be called 'my lord' than 'hey, you!'"

"Fair enough, laddie."

"Besides, I find the lord Telramund and his family are rather pleasant hosts. Don't you?"

"I think so too," said Dwalin.

"Well you would, wouldn't you," said Balin.


	17. Chapter 16

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 16**

Helmwyn walked back from the stables, and found Thorin sitting at a table outside the hall, filing away at little things of metal. She greeted him and went over to see what he was doing. "What are you making, my lord?" she asked him.

"It is a little project I have been pursuing in my spare time," he told her. "Those are tuning levers for Master Halfdan's harp." He had cast them at the forge, and had borrowed Balin's jeweller's files to give them a smooth finish, so that they would not wear out the harpstrings. Helmwyn unbuckled her sword, and sat down on the bench opposite, and watched him work for a while; and she was amazed that he could work so deftly, and on such small things, with those great hands of his.

He seemed in a good mood, and Helmwyn judged that now might be a good time to ask him what she had meant to ask for a while now. "My lord," said she, "speaking of Master Halfdan, I wanted to know…are there any songs among your people of your deeds during the war against the Orcs?"

Thorin looked up at her from under his black brows, and actually smiled. "Aye, there are some. Why do you ask? Would you have them translated and sung throughout the Mark, to kindle hope and defiance in the hearts of your people?"

Helmwyn laughed. "That is a shrewd guess, my lord! And close enough to the truth; for I find it fitting that you should thus be known in the Mark, and thus remembered."

Thorin still smiled, but he shook his head sadly. "I fear such songs would do little to bring your people courage, my lady; for they are grim songs, and sorrowful."

"Aye, I feared it might be so," said she. "And yet I would hear them."

Thorin looked into the lady's earnest eyes, and remembered that she too had suffered a loss at the hands of the Orcs, and knew well enough the reality of war, as indeed did all her people.

"Why is it that the best songs are of war, do you think?" he mused aloud. "For war is not glad."

"War is never glad," answered Helmwyn; "and yet great deeds must be remembered."

"_Were_ these deeds great, though?" he asked. "They were dark and terrible, aye; and there was naught in our hearts in those days, save a grim determination to kill and avenge. Many of our kin perished for this unrelenting hatred. And all for what? Not a day passes but I ask myself that. And yet…"

Thorin trailed off. He was rolling one of the little levers between his fingertips.

"…do you know," he said at last, "looking back, I realise now that during that time, my people were united by a sense of purpose such as we had not known since the dragon came, nor have known since. It is a terrible thing to say, but sometimes I almost miss it."

Helmwyn found the lord Thorin's words alarming, for she heard despair in them.

"Surely you are even now building a new life," she said. "Is that not the greatest purpose of all?"

"Aye, assuredly," said he, staring at the little lever with an air of discouragement.

Helmwyn was baffled, and tried to rouse him from his melancholy state.

"Tell me about the Blue Mountains, my lord. How is your new home?"

Thorin sighed.

"It is old, lady. They are called mountains, but they are little more than hills now. It is said there were great strongholds of our people there, when the mountains were younger; but they were broken and flooded by a great convulsion of the world long ago, when many lands were drowned. The mountains have since been weathered down, and all trace of our ancient cities is now lost."

"But is it a good home?"

"Good enough. There is iron ore, and other useful seams. The climate is not inclement, and there are farmers and burghers in that corner of Eriador with whom we can trade. We can even trade with the Elves at the Havens, if we must. The land is untroubled by Orcs, save a few gangrel ones from the northern wastes, and the Rangers make short shrift of them."

But even as he listed all that was good about the Blue Mountains, Thorin seemed half-hearted and downcast.

"Then why seem you so discontented, my lord?" asked Helmwyn.

"It seems now the humble crafts of our kind shall be our livelihood, and not great works such as our forefathers made. Indeed, much knowledge perished with those of my folk who died under the Mountain; and we look back in awe to the treasures of our race, and deem them magical, for the skill of making them has been lost forever."

Thorin resumed his filing in a desultory fashion. "And so we turn to our lesser crafts, and apply our skill to them, and attempt to find new wonders within the stone. And indeed the inventiveness of my folk is not to be denied, even in adversity. We have found dyes that the Elves envy, for we can make deep, light-fast hues that they with their natural dyes cannot. We are making wondrous things out of glass, and soon they will be more wondrous still. Aye, though we are brought low, the skill of my people remains unmatched. We shall mine, and trade; and though we may not be great, I daresay we may again be wealthy."

Thorin paused, and put down his file.

"But alas, we mine iron now, instead of gold and jewels."

"People shall always need iron, my lord," said Helmwyn gently. "There is no shame in it."

"Nay, to be sure, there is no shame. But tell me, my lady, how would you feel if your people had to live as mule-drivers, or goat-herds? What if they were driven from the Mark into fens, or stony wastes, or barren hills, and never saw green grass? Would they not feel sorrow and shame when they saw a rider on a great horse on the distant road? Would their hearts not sicken and grieve, never again to ride swiftly through the wide grasslands with the wind in their hair?" Helmwyn's heart was chilled, for she was beginning to understand.

"What your _mearas_ are to your people, gold was to mine," said Thorin. "And what the green plains of the Mark are to you, the Mountain was to us. This is not merely about riches, or pride, though assuredly these things play their part. This is about who we are as a people. Would it not be better, I sometimes wonder, to dwindle into the hills, and forget the realms of our fathers, and simply be content to live and labour as other folk do? Indeed, some of my people might wish it, but I cannot. I may not. I carry the weight of so many dead that I have no say in the matter."

Helmwyn was silent, and thought about the many Dwarves that had perished when the dragon sacked the Mountain, and about the great number that had been slain in the war against the Orcs; and she thought of Thorin's duty to the few that remained, and to the memory of the others.

"But, my lord…" said she at last, "you have defeated your foe, and have given your people a new home, which would be counted no mean achievement by most. What more would you do? What more _could_ you do, to avenge your kin, that you have not already attempted?"

"My course is clear, lady. The task has been bequeathed to me. Sooner or later I must reclaim the Mountain."

She gazed at him in silence. His eyes burned fiercely, but there was no hope in them; and now at last did she fully understand the burden he bore.

* * *

The light was failing, and the lady Ortrud came out to tell them that supper was ready; and Thorin put away his levers and his files, and they went inside. And they spoke not of these things again that evening; but Thorin was silent, and Helmwyn gazed long at him. She felt guilty for stirring up dark thoughts in him; although in truth such thoughts were ever in Thorin's mind.

Ortrud could see that if Helmwyn was curious about the Dwarves, she was fascinated by the lord Thorin. If asked, Helmwyn would have readily admitted to this, on account of his birth, and his deeds, and his burden. She knew now that there could be no rest for him, not ever, until he reclaimed the Mountain, or perished in the attempt. Helmwyn's heart was moved to pity; and she vowed to herself to do whatever she could to help him in his hopeless endeavour, even if that only meant compiling the few songs and tales she had about dragon-slayers. It was not very much in the way of dragon-lore, but it might help.

But Ortrud saw the way Helmwyn looked at the lord Thorin; and she wondered whether his piercing eyes and his deep voice, his brooding good looks and his flowing hair had nothing to do with her niece's interest. This she would have denied, of course; but had she been honest with herself, Helmwyn would have realised how much she admired his quietly powerful bearing, and his air of sorrowful majesty.


	18. Chapter 17

**A/N:**_ This week, Thorin ponders the sociology of shieldmaidening, and the Dwarves play board-games. Enjoy!_

* * *

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 17**

When the Lord Telramund and the Dwarves rode to Helm's Deep that morning, the lady Helmwyn rode with them; for she said that she had been idle long enough, and that it was time that she too took out an _éored_.

Three score Riders had gathered in the centre of the camp at the foot of the Deeping-Wall, and were packing food into their saddle-bags, and making ready to leave. The Dwarves watched Helmwyn, clad in her hated mailshirt and a plain leather cuirass, as she strapped a couple of blankets to her saddle. They exchanged glances, but none of them said anything, save for Balin. "Must you do this, my lady?" he asked, giving voice to their misgivings.

"You need not fear for me, Master Balin," answered she with a smile; "this is a bad season for Orcs! They skulk in the hills now, for the days are lengthening; but they shall come down again when the harvest is in, and the foals are grown." She mounted up, and put on her helm. "Besides, what else would I do with my time?" she asked, and took her spear from a squire. "Sit around in a bower - whatever that may be - like my mother in Gondor would have me do?"

"There are always accounts," suggested Balin.

Helmwyn laughed, and said she would rather deal with Orcs.

Horns were sounded, and she rode off, with her _éored_ in tow, and a pack of large grey hounds; and the Dwarves would not have been able to tell her from the other Riders, had it not been for her smaller stature, and the round blue shield that was strapped to her back.

* * *

In some matters, Thorin had great trouble understanding the Rohirrim. For years, he and his brother and his father had watched over his sister Dís, and sought to keep her safe from harm; for now that all else was lost, she was indeed the treasure of the house of Durin. But these people seemed to find it perfectly normal that the King's daughter should ride off to war. How they could even contemplate this was entirely beyond him.

He decided to share his concern with the lord Telramund, who after all seemed a sensible man. Thorin walked up to him as he waved his niece farewell.

"In truth, my lord," said Thorin, "I am amazed that your people should let the women of their royal house put themselves thus at risk."

"Aye, that may seem surprising to you, my lord," answered Telramund; "but this has ever been the way of our people. It used to be necessary when we were a wild nomadic folk in the North. Ever since that time have there been shieldmaidens in the house of Eorl, though perhaps fewer now than there used to be; for even now we are not safe from attack, and the day may yet come when someone must lead the people when the men are slain, and hold the last defences."

Thorin was unconvinced. "How can a woman, however well-trained, hope to hold her own in a fray?"

The lord Telramund laughed. "You did not know my wife in her youth, my lord. She was formidable!" said he with a fond grin. "We had to deal with a few Dunlendings in those days; and I can assure you that she showed them no mercy. You should have seen her. What a fighter she was!"

Thorin had to agree that the lady Ortrud still was formidable; but he remained baffled. "I can see the sense in teaching women to defend themselves," he said; "and indeed the women of my own people have had to dress as men, and carry weapons, during the time of our exile. But to send them to fight Orcs deliberately, while there are still captains to take their place, is something else altogether."

"Our shieldmaidens are not sent, my lord," said Telramund. "They go willingly, for that is how they understand their duty to the Mark; and they take pride in it."

Thorin shook his head. "I marvel that the King should allow it."

"It grieves him, to be sure; but he is also proud of his daughter, just as King Fréalaf before him was proud of the lady Ortrud."

"But would _you_ be happy to see your own daughter swing a sword?"

"Aye," said Telramund; "when the time comes, and if she shows any inclination, I certainly would. She takes after my wife in many ways, and could not hope for a better instructor." He smiled, and clapped Thorin over the shoulder. "I can see that you find this strange, my lord. But fear not. Though I too feel protective of them, I daresay our women can look after themselves. In any case, there is no arguing with them. Ortrud just used to laugh and do as she pleased. Helmwyn is worse."

"How so?"

"She argues back," said Telramund. "Besides, ever since her husband was slain, she has ruled her own fate, and would suffer none who urges caution. Did you know she had been wed?"

"Aye, I stumbled upon the fact, quite by chance. What happened?"

"He was ambushed by Orcs," answered Telramund. "A great pity."

Thorin remembered that it was the Dwarves who had driven the Orcs southwards, and his feelings of guilt stirred again. "I fear I may have grieved her," he said. "I would know more, lest I offend her without meaning to."

"I would tell you more, my lord, were it not that I know little of the matter, for she never speaks of it; though whether that be because she mourns him no longer, or because the grief is still too great, I do not know."

Thorin thought about that. "She does not _look_ grieved," he said; "unless it be by the attacks on the Mark."

"Aye, that is true enough," said Telramund. "But you will find that my niece keeps her own counsel."

Thorin had to agree to that, too.

"But I will say this," Telramund went on: "I have not seen her so merry for a long while. She was ever grave, and careworn, and had black moods when there was word of an Orc raid; but since you and your companions arrived, I have seen her smile again. I think your folk have given her hope; hope that something can be done to defend ourselves, and that our efforts are not in vain."

"She cares deeply about the fate of her people," said Thorin.

"Aye, that she does; and the people love her for it, as they love the King. It is a great pity that she was born a woman, and his youngest child; for whatever else a woman of the Mark may do, she may not rule. What a queen she would have made!"

Thorin did not answer; but he remembered the dressing-down Helmwyn had given Wulfhere, and smiled, for he too thought so.

* * *

That evening, after dinner, Thorin's companions gathered around the table to play _Dwarves and Goblins_. Regin had made a board, and painstakingly carved gaming-pieces from linden wood. The little figures of warriors all wore expressions of wide-eyed terror; although whether this was intentional, or merely resulted from Regin's lack of skill with faces, Thorin did not know.

The game was played on a chequered board by two opposing sides. In the centre of the board, the Dwarves held a 'hill', and endeavoured to defend their King; while the aim of the Goblins was, of course, to storm the hill and capture the Dwarf King.

Thorin thought this was in extremely poor taste, as it invariably made him think of Thrór; and he gave the players a disapproving look, and withdrew to his corner to smoke his pipe. But in truth, the game was ancient, and pre-dated the battle of Azanulbizar by many years; and the parallel with Thrór's fate was no more than an unfortunate coincidence. In any case, there was nothing Thorin could do to prevent his companions from engaging in such pursuits. He had already spoken sternly to them on this matter, to no avail.

He sat and frowned, as his fellows noisily placed bets using counters – and not actual coin, of course; for Dwarves had too much sense to gamble away real money.

Thorin was uneasy, but this was not only to do with the game. Something the lord Telramund had said that morning had troubled him; something about the lady Helmwyn throwing caution to the wind after her husband had been slain. Thorin had begun to wonder whether her riding out were not a way of courting death. To be sure, she seemed cheerful enough, and had even quipped about her husband's death; but perhaps she was merely adept at concealing her true feelings. One could never really tell, with females; and they _were_ prone to extreme reactions. There had certainly been a few sad cases, after the battle of Azanulbizar, of widows wandering off into the mountains, never to be seen again.

He did feel partly responsible for her bereavement. After all, it was the wasteful folly of his people's wars that had driven the Orcs into the Mark. This fair country and these valiant folk were now at war with the very same Orcs that the Dwarves had fought and defeated. Thorin wondered whether he and his companions would have received such a welcome, had the people of the Mark known about this.

Thorin felt compelled to make sure despair were not eating away at the young lady's heart; for he thought well of her, and would not have one so fair and brave throw her life away in bitterness. And so Thorin resolved that he would sound her out, but cautiously; for though he felt they understood each other in many ways, in others he found her also strange, and guarded.

* * *

Helmwyn's _éored_ returned to Helm's Deep several days later, laden with Orc weapons, and as much iron and steel as they could salvage; for it was the custom of the Rohirrim to burn the corpses of their foes, and to despoil them of their arms, so that none would be left behind for the others.

The lady strode to the camp forge where Thorin was working, along with the other smiths. Her hair was unwashed, and her face was grim and weary, and covered in soot-marks.

"Greetings, Masters!" she called. "My lord," said she, and nodded to Thorin. "We have brought back some more iron for you. Can you use it?"

"Orc iron is crude and rusted and poorly forged, my lady," answered Thorin; "but I daresay we shall be able to make something of it."

"That is good. The works go well?"

"Aye, that they do. Slowly, but well."

"Good." She made to leave, but then turned once more to Thorin: "Forgive me if I have been curt, my lord. I will feel more sociable once I have washed off the reek of burnt Orc-flesh."

"There is nothing to forgive, lady," he said. "I know that stench well enough."

She looked into his eyes, and nodded once more, and walked away again; and Thorin wondered whether she were in fact courting death, or whether she had not already seen too much of it.


	19. Chapter 18

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 18**

It was Midsummer, and the folk of Lindburg had built a bonfire on the green, and gathered there to feast, and be merry. Meats were being roasted, and the young people had formed a lively circle of dancers around the fire. Thorin and Helmwyn had agreed to meet under the linden tree to escape the noise and the folk-dancing; and he waited, while the lady ventured among the revellers to find them something to drink.

Thorin sat at ease under the tree, smoking his pipe, and listened to the distant sounds of laughter and fiddle-music. It was a fair evening. The western sky was still light; and the sweet, honeyed scent of linden-blossom hung in the mild air. Thorin felt content - or as close to contentment as he was ever likely to be. He tried blowing smoke-rings for a while, and failed.

Helmwyn strode back over the green towards him; and he saw that he was smiling.

"I have managed to rescue this!" she called, and triumphantly held up a stoneware bottle; "but I fear there were no more cups."

"Then we shall do without!" he answered.

"It is mead. Will that do?"

Thorin smiled; and she handed him the bottle, and sat down beside him, stretching out her legs in the grass. They leaned against the bole of the tree, and drank, and talked companionably for a while.

Thorin told the lady about the feast days of his people, including the dwarven New Year, which was calculated according to a complex lunar calendar. Helmwyn was impressed. She in turn told him about the standing stones of Dunharrow that were used by ancient peoples to map the motions of the heavens. But her own people were no stargazers, and could only just work out the dates of the solstices using a stick and a length of hemp rope. Thorin had to admit that the moon-charts of his people had perished under the Mountain, along with the astronomers; and that the Dwarves were now unable to predict their feast-days with any accuracy. They now knew Durin's Day only when it was upon them – and only _if_ there were no clouds.

Helmwyn knew not what to say to this, and there was a lull in the conversation. They sat in silence, and drank some more, listening to the sounds of merrymaking from afar. Thorin thought this might be a good moment to probe the lady's heart, to make sure she did not harbour any secret death-wish, for that concern had been nagging at him for a while now; though in truth, he had seldom seen her so carefree and cheerful as that evening.

"My lady," he began tentatively, "the other day I accidentally stumbled upon the fact that your husband had been slain; I must ask you to forgive me if I have caused you any distress."

He need not have worried about upsetting her, for she was merry from the mead, and answered him brightly: "Do not trouble yourself, my lord. Aye, I am a widow, but that is nothing unusual in the Mark. You need not tread carefully around me on account of that. You did not know, and no one told you; and I daresay that there are other qualities for which I would rather be known. I would have people say: 'Here is the lady Helmwyn, the reluctant shieldmaiden and dutiful steward, of the house of Eorl! She is fond of song, but her stitching is abominable' rather than: 'Here is the lady Helmwyn, who was widowed some five years ago!"

If this were a mask for grief, it was a very good one. Thorin decided on what he thought was a more subtle approach. "Do you not miss your husband?"

Helmwyn took a swig of mead. She had to think about this before answering. "He was certainly a loss to the Mark."

"Was he a great captain?" he asked, as Helmwyn passed him the bottle.

"He was a good captain, tall and brave and honourable - but then, so are all the men of the Mark, I suppose," she added with a wry smile. "He was as good a match as any. My father happened to pick one who was nobly born, and of a suitable age, and had proven himself in battle."

Thorin nearly choked on his mead. "Do you mean this match was made for you?" he spluttered.

"Well, yes. More or less."

But Thorin was struggling with the concept of arranged marriages. He found it as incomprehensible as the concept of shieldmaidens.

"Forgive me, my lady, but as a Dwarf I find this strange. Our womenfolk may not fight, or even go out much, but at least they are able to choose their own husbands. Whereas you, who lead men into battle…"

Helmwyn shrugged. "Had the match been truly abhorrent, I suppose I could have refused. My father is a kind man, after all." She did not tell Thorin that she had agreed to the match because she had liked the copper-red hair of her betrothed. It had seemed a good enough reason at the time. She had been young.

"Did you not… love him, then?" asked Thorin in disbelief.

Helmwyn stared at him, for she thought that was a rather strange question. "I am not sure that I know what you mean by that, my lord. If you would know whether I sighed and pined as women do in songs, in truth I did not. But if you would know whether it was a happy marriage, I suppose the answer is yes. Not quite what my uncle and aunt have, to be sure; but I was not really expecting anything of the sort. He was kind to me, and I respected him. I was free to ride and fight, and tried my hand at running his estate. Those were good learning years."

She took another draught of mead. Perhaps she had already had too much, it was making her talkative. Why was she telling the lord Thorin all of this? And why on earth was he asking? She took this to be a dwarven bluntness of manner, and let it pass. "And then one night, they brought him back, pale and cold, with that Orc arrow through his throat," said she matter-of-factly. "That was the end of that; but it made me understand a few things."

Thorin was a little bewildered by her forthrightness; but he pressed on. "What was it you understood, lady?"

"That even a brave, kind man can die a stupid, pointless death. That he should have worn a gorget. That the Orcs must be driven from the Mark, lest that scene repeat itself in every home throughout the land for years to come."

"You wanted revenge," suggested Thorin; for loss, and a desire for revenge, were things that he could understand well enough.

But Helmwyn shook her head. "Nay. What would have been the sense in that? I wanted to save what could still be saved. So I mourned not; but instead, resolved to make myself useful. As soon as the last green turf was laid on his mound, I left for Edoras, and have lived as you see me now ever since." She spoke with equanimity, but whether she truly felt it, or whether it was a carefully studied mask to conceal her true feelings, Thorin could not tell.

In truth, Helmwyn's feelings were complex, and there was much she did not tell him, although she could not rightly say why. She did not tell Thorin that she had enjoyed sharing her husband's bed, but had been relieved when she had lost the child she was carrying; neither did she tell Thorin how little she had grieved over her husband's death. She had felt sorrow, to be sure, but mostly anger, and a sense of purpose; and also, disturbingly, she had felt free. Perhaps she feared the lord Thorin would think less of her if she told him any of this.

"Besides," she quipped, "I could not have remained in the Folde; my mother-in-law was dreadful."

But Thorin pitied her. "Have you no regrets, lady?" he asked her gently. "Do you not sometimes wish for a normal life?"

"Not you as well, my lord!" said Helmwyn with mock indignation. "Do you know, my father also keeps pestering me to wed again. I wonder why."

"Perhaps he believes it would make you happy. Such is the way of fond fathers with their daughters," said Thorin, and thought of Thráin's well-meaning but misguided overindulging of Dís.

"I did what was expected of me once, my lord; but once was enough. Now I would rather do what I expect of myself."

Thorin thought on this, and gave her a searching look. "And _are_ you happy, my lady?"

"I would be happier without Orcs on our doorstep," she said, and took another sip of mead. "But in earnest, my lord, can you picture me tied to the hearth, with a child at my hip, and another pulling at my skirts? My spirit would wither," she told him with almost brutal honesty. "Nay, we must all do what we can for the Mark. And while almost any woman would make a better mother that I would, I daresay that I have my own way of serving my people."

"With your sword?"

Helmwyn laughed. "Actually, I meant with my wits! My father is a good king, and so no doubt shall my brother Walda be after him; but they are warriors, not clerks; and they cannot be expected to look after the running of the household."

Thorin was amused by that image. "Is that how you see the stewardship of the land?" he asked with a smile.

"Aye. It is woman's work, is it not? Only on a larger scale. But I am happy to do it. And though I often curse the cares that come with my duty, I am well aware that I still enjoy greater freedom than any woman in the Mark. I am content with my lot; I only wish I could do more."

Thorin looked into the lady's earnest grey eyes, and knew she was speaking the truth. He was unsure quite what he should make of her words, but at least his concern was eased a little. "My lady, I admire your devotion to your people," he told her. "And I admire you for taking on this duty willingly."

"Coming from you, my lord, this is high praise indeed," Helmwyn answered; "for few princes have done as much for their people as you have."

Thorin took a draught of mead, and his brow was furrowed.

"Do you know," he said, "in some ways, things were simpler when my people were living from hand to mouth in exile. But now that we are settling again, I find myself having to…help my father decide certain matters." Thorin trailed off. He wanted to tell the lady about Thráin, about his fears, and his grief over his father's state; but he could not - not yet, at any rate. So instead he told her about the troublesome burdens of rule. "Things like mining concessions, and trading rights, and tangled inheritance claims. Lady, have you any idea how complex Dwarf mining law is?"

"I honestly don't think I want to know," said she.

"Believe me, you do not. Unfortunately dwarven law rests on records and jurisprudence; but when the dragon came, we did not pause to save our scrolls as we fled. That day, along with much else, my people lost the ancient laws and histories of our race; and it was a bitter blow to us, for we honour the written word, and love our ancient scrolls almost as much as we love gold and jewels. And so it now falls to the elders who have been schooled in the lore, and remember, to pronounce on what is lawful, and what is not; but there are but few now who survived the dragon, and the wars, and our long exile. The venerable scholars will launch into bitter disputes, and often enough it is I who must make the final decision." This was because the King's word had force of law; but often King Thráin was too withdrawn, or confused, and could not be burdened with these matters, though Thorin did not say it.

Perhaps he'd had too much to drink. He was holding forth, and he knew it. "I hate this, lady," he told her; "I truly do. I am no lore-master; I am a warrior and a smith. I would be just. But how am I to settle inheritance disputes, when families have been scattered, 'relatives' who have not been seen for fifty years suddenly turn up and make their claims, and all the deeds, marriage contracts and family trees have been lost?"

"It sounds dreadful," said Helmwyn sympathetically.

"It truly is."

They looked at each other, and both suddenly burst out laughing.

"I am sorry, my lord," said Helmwyn, wiping away tears of mirth; "this isn't remotely funny."

"No, it isn't, is it" agreed Thorin; "but it is good the be able to laugh about it." He calmed down, but still smiled. "Thank you, my lady, for listening to me complaining. I know you understand."

"You have heard me complain enough about crops and timber prices and bookkeeping and Orcs," she answered; "it is the least I can do to return the courtesy."

Thorin raised the bottle in a toast.

"To Balin, without whose shrewd advice in legal matters I would be an even angrier Dwarf than I already am."

He passed the bottle to Helmwyn, who raised it in turn. "To Balin, and to double-entry bookkeeping."

They drank to Balin; and though it was turning out to be a rather strange evening, it was not uncomfortable, for they felt at ease in each other's company. Helmwyn grinned, and decided to revenge herself for the rather personal questions Thorin had put to her.

"But what of you, my lord?" she asked him. "Have you wife and child waiting for you in the Blue Mountains?"

Thorin was startled. "I? Nay, not I. To tell you the truth, I had not really thought of it." This was true enough; and he had never wasted any thoughts on the females who had started making eyes at him since they had settled in Ered Luin.

"But you _are_ the heir of your line."

"Aye, and I suppose I must one day concern myself with the matter." Of course, every one wanted the heir of Durin. It was tiresome. "But there is still so much to be done. My people have known war and exile, and now they are weak and scattered wide, and it will be many years, and a great labour, until we may truly call the Blue Mountains home." Thorin shrugged, and added: "In any case, I am still young by the reckoning of my people."

"And how old is that?" asked Helmwyn.

"I am sixty-six years of age."

She laughed, and would not believe him. "In truth, you are older than the King my father, though to me you look like a man half that age. Your people must be long-lived!"

"It is not unusual for a Dwarf to reach two-hundred-and-fifty," Thorin told her.

Helmwyn was astounded. "We must appear as mere children to you."

"Why, how old are you, my lady?" he asked. "Forgive me, but I find it hard to tell with Men."

"I am merely twenty-five."

"Well, to me you look like a woman twice that age."

She laughed again. "I shall take that as a compliment!" said she; but Thorin knew the weight of duty, and cares she bore, for one of her years; and he thought her not in the least a child.

He thought he understood the lady a little better now, although in truth her answers had not been the answers he had expected. And though he still could not quite fathom her, he was reassured; for he guessed that what she craved was not death, but freedom to rule her own fate. But always, always, her chief concern was the good of the Mark, and of its people; just as he himself thought ever of his people, and of his house.

And though he had told her true, that nothing had been further from his mind than taking a wife, Thorin began to think that when he did - for one day he would have to - he would like to find one as brave, and shrewd, and spirited as the lady of Rohan.


	20. Chapter 19

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 19**

One evening, the lady Helmwyn announced that she would be riding to Edoras for a few days. She had been gone too long, said she, and there would be business there requiring her attention. But she asked the Dwarves whether any of them wished to go with her, for now the works were advancing well, and they could be spared for a little while, except perhaps Hogni and Snorri.

Andvari and Regin did not fancy riding, and said they would rather stay. But Thorin said he would be glad to visit the master smiths of Edoras; and Balin hoped to be able to talk to King Brytta about their pay, for here that issue seemed to have been well and truly dropped. And Dwalin welcomed a change in his routine, and mused vaguely about drilling those Edoras guards with their fine armour, and more particularly about giving that Gunnwald a sound thrashing. And so it was decided.

The ride back to Edoras seemed to the Dwarves much shorter that the ride out; for riding to and fro between Lindburg and Helm's Deep, they had become considerably more proficient horsemen than when they had first arrived in the Mark. They came to the city in the late afternoon; and since there was still some time before supper, the lady Helmwyn went into Meduseld to see what paperwork awaited her; but the three Dwarves stopped by the barracks to greet Amleth. He was glad to see them, and eagerly listened to their news of the Westfold; and when Dwalin told him of his scheme to sit in on the guards' training, and Amleth welcomed the suggestion. "Now shall I see you wield all those fearsome weapons at last!" said he, and laughed.

* * *

The Dwarves made their way up the hill to the great hall. The King was there, and welcomed them, and the lady Helmwyn had changed out of her riding leathers into a fair gown, and joined them at the table. Brytta was glad of this gathering, and asked the Dwarves about the histories and wars of their people, and told them many heroic tales of his own; but the lady Helmwyn was subdued, and did not speak, and it seemed to Thorin that she looked pale and troubled.

After the meal she asked him if he would sit with her by the fire, for she had something to tell him; and he found that strange, for they had often sat together in friendship, and talked, and never had there been any need for a formal request. So they sat by the fire, and Thorin asked her what weighed on her mind. Helmwyn took a deep breath.

"My lord, I…I was searching through my books for anything pertaining to dragons, thinking it might interest you," said she in a low voice, almost a whisper, as though she did not wish to be overheard; "…and I chanced upon the tale of Scatha the Worm and Frám the dragonslayer. Know you this tale?" _(1)_

"Every Dwarf knows it," said Thorin, and frowned.

"I know it too," said the lady; "but to my shame I had forgotten an essential part of the story." Then, in painful earnest: "My lord, Frám used your people most ill."

"Aye, that he did," said Thorin; and indeed that tale still rankled with the Dwarves.

"I make no excuses for him, my lord," said she. "His deeds are naught but plunder. His treatment of your kin was dishonourable."

"That is beyond dispute." He failed to see what she was driving at. "But what mean you by this, my lady? What is this old tale to you?"

"Do you not know, my lord?" Helmwyn looked at him, fearful to tell him what she must. "My lord, Frám was one of the fathers of my house. He was the grandsire of Eorl the Young, who rode south with his people and settled in the Mark. In the vaults beneath Meduseld, there is still gold from Scatha's hoard. The gilding that adorns this very hall-"

She broke off, dreading his reaction. Thorin remained silent for a while, then gave a low, mirthless laugh.

"Aye, I remember thinking that cup must be of dwarven make," said he, recalling the day she had welcomed them before the doors of Meduseld.

Helmwyn felt utterly crushed. She expected him to interrupt her at any moment, or to storm out in a towering rage, cursing the faithlessness of Men, never to return. She plunged on: "My lord, it is a source of deep, smarting shame to me that the ancient heirlooms of my house were stolen from your people. I must make amends for this."

Thorin was angry, though not at the lady; but glancing at her, he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears of hot shame, and was dismayed.

"I have not the authority to return these things," she went on, "but I shall do what I can to make this right. I shall go to the King my father, and plead with him-"

"Nay, lady, I beg you-" Thorin laid his hand upon hers, for he could not bear to see her thus aggrieved. "If this gold be bought with a single one of your tears, I should think the price too dear, and would not have it," he told her, and marvelled that he meant every word of it.

The lady gave him a searching look. "You are kind, my lord," said she, and brushed away the heavy tears that hovered on her eyelashes. "But I speak in earnest. I would not lose your friendship, or that of your people, over things of gold and silver."

"Nor would I lose yours, or that of your people, over an old grudge _(2)_." Thorin looked into the lady's grave eyes, then turned away sadly. "There are, after all, newer and more bitter grudges for my people to bear," said he with a crooked smile. Helmwyn knew he spoke of the Mountain, and squeezed his hand, and they stared into the fire in silence for a while.

Thorin thought gloomily of the ancestral discontent every Dwarf still felt at the mention of Scatha's hoard, and of how that paled into insignificance compared with the devastation Smaug had wrought upon the Mountain. The images of slaughter and ruin were still vivid in his mind's eye, and ever haunted his dreams.

Yet he was grateful for the lady's presence; it soothed him, for he felt that she understood his sense of duty, and his loss. But Thorin was also grieved by her shame and sorrow; and he cast around for something to say that would cheer her.

"Do you know," he told her, "I think should now be glad to have a necklace of dragon teeth."

They both smiled wistfully. "A rare thing indeed," she said. "But surely you would not give all the gold in Erebor for it."

"Of course not. But any dragonslayer who brings down Smaug might receive a reward. IF he were courteous, and I were in a generous mood."

Helmwyn saw that he was trying to lighten the mood, and was grateful and relieved that he seemed to bear her no ill will on account of Scatha's hoard. But Thorin felt uneasy, for he knew that the Dwarves were not blameless in the plight of the Mark, and he thought that now was as good a time as any to tell her, since they were being forthright with one another. His face became grave once more, and he said:

"But now it is I who must risk your wrath, my lady, for I too have something to tell you."

"What is it, my lord? What could you possibly have done to anger me?"

"These Orc-raids on the Mark, when did they begin?" he asked.

"It must have been fifteen years ago."

"Aye, it is as I feared," said Thorin. "My lady, the Orcs that have been plaguing you are the remnants of the hosts that my people fought and slaughtered, and drove from the Misty Mountains. We are the ones who drove them south, my lady. We have brought this evil upon you."

Helmwyn gazed at him sadly. "Of course you did, my lord." She had known all along. In truth, it had not been so hard to guess. "But it could not be helped, and I will not begrudge you your war upon the Orcs, for it was a just one."

Thorin hung his head. "I wonder. We avenged King Thrór, aye, but many of my people were slain, and the halls of our fathers remain lost to us."

"Your war was just, my lord, because war upon the Orcs is always just. Should you have let them spawn unchecked? Then in time they would have come south anyway, only their numbers would have been immeasurably greater."

"It may be so."

"It is so," said Helmwyn, and her eyes were shining. "But you and your people have dealt them a grievous blow, and shown the other Free Peoples that the Orcs can be fought and defeated. I for one take hope in your deeds. The people of the Mark shall finish what you started; and I am glad that you are here to help us."

Brave and noble heart, thought Thorin. He suddenly felt a great surge of gentleness towards the lady, and wished that he could protect her somehow; but he knew there was not much he could do.

"I thank you for your gracious words, my lady," he said at last; "and I shall do whatever is in my power to help you. But I beg you, at least let us settle that wretched business of Scatha's hoard. As I recall, the tale of Scatha, as it is told among my people, ends with my kin slaying Frám and recovering part of the treasure. Was it also thus in your account?"

"Aye, my lord, according to some versions."

"Then perhaps you will consider the remainder of the hoard as blood-money, and we shall hold ourselves even, and leave it at that."

Helmwyn considered that. "Very well, if that is your wish. Of course," she added, "you and your companions shall receive a few symbolic items as gifts, as a token of friendship between our peoples."

"You drive a hard bargain, my lady," said Thorin with a smile. "Done."

"Done," said Helmwyn, and hesitated. "Perhaps it would be best not to mention this to your companions quite yet."

"Indeed," Thorin agreed. "I would not upset them unnecessarily. After all, the matter is resolved. And you will not tell your kin of the reason the Orcs have come south?"

"They care little for history. I will not trouble them with it."

She smiled, and he smiled back, and both were relieved. They shared an understanding, a trust, perhaps even a friendship; but whatever they chose to call it, they felt it was something rare, and precious, and both were glad that it was unbroken.

* * *

Back at the great table, Balin was fuming.

"Brother, I need to talk to you," he said in the dwarven tongue; and he sat himself squarely down opposite his brother, and looked him sternly in the eye. "It can't go on like this."

Dwalin knew what was coming, and looked sheepishly into his mug of ale. "Look, it's not what you think," he said. "It's just friendship."

"It's all very well, being friendly with the lady," said Balin; "but I feel there might be rather more than just friendship here."

"Well, you have to admit that she's a fine woman," said Dwalin defensively.

"Be that as it may. A Dwarf and a human woman, that's just _wrong_."

Dwalin put down his mug. "All right, I see what you're getting at. And I'll admit it, I do admire the lady Ortrud. But I swear to you, I would never actually do anything embarrassing."

Balin stared at his brother. "Who said anything about you? I'm talking about _him_!"

They both turned to watch Thorin and Helmwyn as they sat by the fire with their heads close together.

Dwalin shook his head. "Nah. You're imagining things. He's just glad to have someone to talk to."

"He can talk to us," said Balin a little petulantly.

"Well, we've been listening to him for forty-odd years," said Dwalin; "he must have noticed our eyes glazing over. For her, the novelty hasn't worn off yet, see? He likes an audience, and she looks like a lass who enjoys all that heavy, epic stuff about honour and duty. It's cultural."

Balin harrumphed, but he was not convinced. "You know, I think he might not actually realise what's going on. But I don't want to say anything, because I'd rather not put any ideas into his head. You know what he's like. Once he's made up his mind about something…"

Dwalin glanced over Balin's shoulder, and saw that Thorin was now holding the lady's hand. He did not mention this. Instead he told his brother: "_If_ you're right - and I'm not saying you are - I think she'd be good for him."

Balin wondered whether his brother was being deliberately provocative. "I can't believe you just said that. Do you realise what a mess this would mean? Thráin would go spare!"

Dwalin tactfully refrained from pointing out that Thráin had already, by all accounts, gone spare.

Balin caught his eye, and sighed. "One way or the other, it'll break his heart, brother; you mark my words."

"Whose? Thráin's or Thorin's?"

Balin glared at his brother. "Both."

Dwalin took a swig of ale, and pondered this. At last he said: "Well, it could be worse."

"_How?_" asked Balin darkly.

Dwalin shrugged. "Look at it this way: at least she's not an Elf."

* * *

_(1) "Of Frám, they say that he slew Scatha, the great dragon of Ered Mithrin, and the land had peace from the long-worms afterwards. Thus Frám won great wealth, but was at feud with the Dwarves, who claimed the hoard of Scatha. Frám would not yield them a penny, and sent to them instead the teeth of Scatha made into a necklace, saying: 'Jewels such as these you will not match in your treasuries, for they are hard to come by.' Some say that the Dwarves slew Frám for this insult." - The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A_

_(2) In Dwarf culture, gold and silver are generally considered perfectly good reasons to fall out. As are old grudges. It wasn't even _that_ old a grudge – only 4 centuries ago. This may be an indication that Thorin was not quite himself at that time._


	21. Chapter 20

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 20**

The following morning, the lady Helmwyn walked down to the great smithy that stood in Edoras; and the lord Thorin came with her, for he was curious to see the best smiths of the Mark at work. Helmwyn had commissioned a suit of armour of her own, though she had long held out, thinking it an unnecessary extravagance. But as the menace of the Orcs would not abate, but grew steadily worse, and it looked increasingly likely that she would need it, she had asked the master smiths for armour after the fashion of the Mark, but as light as they could make it; for she did not wish to trade her wretched second-hand hauberk for something twice as heavy.

Outside it was a bright day, but inside the forge it was ever dim. "Good morrow, Masters!" Helmwyn called as she entered the forge. "How is my fair new gown coming along?"

"Good morrow, my lady!" answered one of the smiths, a huge fellow with red hair and a bristling beard. "We heard of your coming, and have assembled everything. With any luck, this should be the final fitting"

"This is glad news, Master Weyland,' said she; "and indeed I look forward to seeing it finished!"

The master smith showed her to a workbench where the various elements of the armour lay. And there was also a quilted gambeson, onto which gussets of bright mail had been sewn at the throat and armpits; for though the lady wanted no unnecessary weight, and refused a hauberk, she was also prudent, and strengthened the points where she herself would strike. The gambeson had a high collar, and on it would be sewn metal plates, for she was wary of Orc-arrows to the throat.

She removed her riding-coat, and tried on the gambeson over her shirt; and it was tight-fitting, but she could move well in it. Next, the smiths held the elements of the breastplate around her, for it was made up of several overlapping sections; and it seemed that whatever changes they had made were satisfactory, and so it was decided that the breastplate was ready to be embossed, inlaid with leather, gilded, and assembled. Helmwyn laughed, and said she could do without the gilding; but the smiths took pride in their craft, and answered that they would make her armour as well as they could. "But are you sure you want it so adjusted, my lady?" asked Njarl, the older smith. "You might yet listen to me and start eating properly!" and she smiled, for at every fitting he told her off for being too thin.

The great red-haired smith left his colleagues to see to the lady's spaulders and went to salute the lord Thorin.

"I am called Weyland, my lord. They say that you too are a smith?"

"Aye, that I am," answered Thorin; "and I am glad to meet you at last, for I have seen fair armour and weapons here in the Mark, and should like to see you work!"

"Well, my lord, I would be honoured to show you what we can do, but these days we are chiefly busy turning out simple weapons for the troops. The lady's armour was one interesting commission, but that is almost finished now."

"It does look excellently made," said Thorin, and meant it.

He looked around the forge, and his eyes rested on some flat steel plates; and a sudden notion came to him. "Tell me, Master Weyland, how do you feel about pattern-welding? I have a mind to try my hand at a project that might interest you," Thorin said; and he turned and looked pointedly at the lady, who was trying on her vambraces, and asking Njarl whether it might be possible to affix a knife on the inside.

The great smith took the hint. "Aye, it does interest me," answered Weyland. "Well, my lord, if you are around for a few days, you are welcome in this forge. I daresay you shall teach us a thing or two, for the skill of Dwarves at metalwork is said to be very great." And the two smiths exchanged a conspiratorial look.

The others were holding together the various elements of the lady's helm for a final fitting before assembly. She heard Thorin and Weyland talking; and she caught snatches of conversation about different qualities of steel, and fire, and billets, whatever those may be, and she smiled to herself, for they seemed to be getting along famously.

Next she tried on a skirt of leather and bronze scales. This worried her, for it was still unfinished, and would doubtless be heavy; but it was necessary, for Riders were vulnerable to leg-wounds, and she was cautious about her hamstrings. At least it would help her to remain grounded, she thought.

When Helmwyn had tried everything on, she also took off the gambeson, for it was getting hot in the forge. Thorin too had taken off his coat, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and was already heating something in the fire, and watched it intently while Weyland worked the bellows. But in that moment Helmwyn turned around, and beheld the lord Thorin, and she saw that his eyes shone in the light of the forge. And all of a sudden Helmwyn felt flushed, and could not breathe; and she excused herself, and stepped outside for some air.

She went to bathe her face in a barrel of rainwater, and tried to cool her burning cheeks.

"Are you not well, my lady?" asked Njarl, who had come after her, concerned.

She held on to the barrel, for her knees were weak.

"Thank you, Njarl; it is nothing. It must be the heat."

But it was not the heat, for her heart was racing and her hands shook; and now she understood that she loved the lord Thorin, and the realisation had winded her like a blow to the stomach.

She splashed some more cold water on her face and tried to pull herself together. "Maybe you are right, Njarl. Maybe I should take your advice and eat something," said she, as reassuringly as she could.

She went back inside to retrieve her coat, and wish them all a good day, and tried to escape as quickly as possible; and she saw that Thorin was now holding the red-hot billet, and was about to start hammering it out. But as she was leaving, he looked up at her from under his black brows, and smiled.

* * *

Helmwyn strode back to Meduseld with as much apparent calm as she could muster, though her stomach was churning and she felt as though her knees would give under her. It was all she could do not to race the length of the seemingly endless hall, until at last she came to her chamber, and shut the door, and sat down in a corner of the floor, hugging her knees. She closed her eyes, and listened to her ragged breaths, and felt her heart hammering against her ribs.

In her mind's eye she saw him, standing quiet and masterful in the light of the forge, and her heart tightened in an acute pang of love. She thought back through all the time they had spent together, and tried to pinpoint the moment when this could have started. As she thought about it, it seemed to her, as it always does in such cases, that she had loved him from the moment her eyes had first met his; only she had not known it then. All this time, she had not known. She, who knew all the songs, but did not believe them. She, who thought that tales of love were merely peddled to young girls in order to keep them quiet until they were married off.

Of course, she knew the deep, steady love of kin and friends and country; but not this, nothing like this. This hurt. Her heart burned as hot as the forge. And she did not think there was anything to be _done_ with this knowledge, except to bear it.

Helmwyn was dismayed. She mourned the trust and the closeness she had shared with the lord Thorin; for now that she understood how she felt, how was she ever to regain her free and easy manner with him? How, when her heart quaked at the very thought of him?

She allowed herself to weep a little, but not much; for she could not face remaining idle, and brooding on this. Instead she dried her tears, got up, composed herself, and went down into the vaults to make an inventory of what was left of Scatha's hoard.


	22. Chapter 21

_**A/N:**_ _Hello boys and girls! First of all, I'd like to say a big thank you to all of you for reading and reviewing. I am glad to hear you're enjoying this fic (which has ruined my summer and is now destroying my autumn). Your feedback has brought a lot of joy to my withered little heart!_

_Now, there are quite a few pics out there of Thorin doing Bitter Smithing; but this week I thought I'd get him to do some Happy Smithing, for a change. The poor dear chap deserves some good moments._

_Oh, and by the way - Helmwyn of the Riddermark is now on the Book of Faces. Do not hesitate to drop by for a cup of mead, Anglo-Saxon poetry, educational vids about sword-fighting, glum Rohirric fatalism, and pretty pictures of Thorin with his shirt off._

* * *

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 21**

Helmwyn ran her fingers through the hoard. There were strange coins, little ingots, strips and twists of gold wire, arm-rings and neck-rings, mounts and brooches. There were chains and pins and cups and horns and weapons, plain or engraved or set with coloured stones.

The yellow metal shone prettily enough, to be sure; but to Helmwyn gold had but one purpose: to buy grain and weapons. How one could lust after it for its own sake was beyond her. But she thought of the lord Thorin's words, and remembered what he had told her about gold being to his people what horses where to hers: a part of their identity. She wished to do right by him, and by his people, and she wanted to give them at least some of these things – in payment, but also, partly, in reparation of their ancestral wrong.

She could not tell what was ancient and what was not; it all looked the same to her. For all she knew, all of this was from Scatha's hoard. But she could not give away all the gold in Meduseld merely because her conscience stung her. She also had the Mark to consider.

She thought of asking the lord Thorin's advice, for he now knew of the origins of the treasure, and yet bore her no ill-will on account of that. Surely he would be able to tell her which of these things were ancient, and of dwarven make. She pictured him picking up the golden things, turning them in his great hands, eyeing them expertly, smiling when he recognized the work of his forefathers.

No, on second thoughts, she would not ask him. Perhaps later, when she had steeled herself a little. Right now, being alone in the vaults with him was more than she could face.

Helmwyn looked at the pile of gold, and sighed.

She reflected that the Dwarves' fee ought to be a mixture of things that were fair, things that were useful, and things that could be melted down for bullion. It seemed fair; and in any case, it was the best solution she could think of for the moment.

"Osric?" she called. "Do you have your ledger ready? And some scales? Good. Let us catalogue this mess."

* * *

The three smiths hammered the red-hot billet each in turn, drawing it out, until Thorin bade them stop, and heated it again, and folded it upon itself. They beat it out again, in precise, rhythmic motions born of long practice; and now they hammered out the billet until it formed a long, square rod.

Thorin turned to the apprentice, who stood by the anvil with a wire-brush, ready to clean off the scale from the glowing billet. "Would you do me a favour, lad? Run to the hall, and see if you can borrow the lady's sword. She did not wear it today. If anyone asks, say you are to bring it for sharpening."

The boy ran off, and Thorin placed another layered billet into the fire. "I thank you for your help, Masters," he said. "I could do it on my own, but then I would be at it for days, and I do not have that long. But with the three of us, we shall make good progress on these rods!"

"We do it gladly, my lord. The sooner this is done, the sooner we'll get to the truly interesting parts," said Weyland.

"Aye, and then we can just watch" added Njarl, and grinned.

They were working on the second rod when the apprentice returned with the sword. "Well done, Hrolf," said Weyland; "just put it on the workbench, there's a good lad. Now come back here and get brushing!"

When they had finished the second rod, the smiths went to examine the sword.

"Hey, I know that one!" exclaimed Njarl. "That's one I made for young lord Waldred when he was a growing lad."

"It is a fine weapon, Master Njarl!" said Thorin, drawing the sword and testing its weight and balance; "but I fear young lord Waldred must already have been taller than the lady is now. This is too long for her. I shall take a couple of inches off-" Thorin thought aloud, and began marking the outlines of a sword on the workbench in chalk. "- there, that should do; and I'll bring the balance closer to the grip. See? This one balances an inch or so below the crossguard," said he, balancing the sword on his outstretched fingers. "So let's give it a bit of a taper. And a heavier pommel. Right." Thorin checked the rods they had just forged against the chalk outline. They were just about the length of the blade; but these were the edge-billets, so that was well. "Thank you, Hrolf, you can bring the sword back to Meduseld. Masters, let us get to work on the core rods!"

These did not require folding, and the three smiths made a good team. It was past noon when they rested; and three more rods lay on the workbench between the edge-billets. It was dark in the forge, for smiths need to be able to judge the temperature of the hot iron by its colour; but they sent the apprentice for some food, and sat outside in the sunshine, and talked of their craft. And Thorin insisted that they stop calling him 'my lord', for he felt a sense of fellowship with these men. They took a good long rest, for the next stage was going to be tricky.

At last they went back in, and Thorin heated the end of one of the core rods; and when it glowed, Weyland grasped the end with tongs and twisted it on itself. Thorin and Njarl held it fast, and Weyland shouted at Hrolf to brush the scale away, lest any became caught in the folds of the metal and weakened the blade. Hrolf did as he was told, and was amazed that the metal would not break; and indeed, it took all of Weyland's skill to know when to stop twisting.

The rod was put back into the fire, and the next section was heated and twisted, and the next, and the next. And when at last the three twisted rods lay on the workbench, Thorin clapped Njarl and Weyland on the shoulder (or tried at least, for Weyland was very tall), and even gave Hrolf an affectionate cuff behind the head, for he certainly could not have done that without help, and was relieved that all had gone well.

They took another rest, and Thorin tried to clear his head; for during this next stage, he would be alone. It would be just him and the sword. This was the part he loved most, the part that would truly test his skill: the part that would give the sword its soul. He did not speak, but went and bound the five rods together into a single billet, using steel brackets. And Weyland and Njarl watched him, but kept a respectful silence, and made sure Hrolf did so too; for they knew what lay before Thorin.

He placed the sword-billet into the fire, and watched it closely so that it would not overheat; and when he judged the colour to be right, he sprinkled some borax on it, took it out of the fire and began to hammer it carefully, so that the rods would be welded together. He used not the mighty hammer-blows he had used earlier to draw out the rods; for this operation required control, and concentration, and above all patience. Once hasty blow, and the blade would be spoiled. He removed the brackets, and worked his way slowly down the length of the blade, hammering the rods together, but without drawing the blade out too much, or risking ruining the pattern.

It was a long process, but Thorin felt he was beginning to know the sword, to sense its personality; and he worked on her lovingly, for he sensed that she (this one was definitely a she) was going to be a beauty. In the end, he checked the blade against the chalk outline, and let it cool. If he had been negligent, she might spring apart later; but he felt he had lavished all his attention on her. Weyland and Njarl had watched him intently, and came to him with words of approval, and Hrolf emerged as from a daze, for he had never seen anything like this.

Thorin stepped outside, and saw that it was sunset; and he realised he was weary, perhaps even more in mind than in body. He bathed his face and neck and arms in cold water, and breathed the fresh clean air, and stood for a moment enjoying the feeling of quiet satisfaction he always got from work well done. Not that he had had much occasion to do such fine work during his exile; or if he did, it was for his own people. But making such a sword, if it took a lot out of him, also gave him the greatest possible satisfaction he could know in his work as a smith. It was like giving birth.

He went back inside for one more step. "Will you not call it a day?" said Weyland to him. "You've been at it since this morning!"

"I would finish the point tonight, Masters," answered Thorin; "but you need not linger here on my account if you would rest!"

"Nay," said Weyland, "I would watch this part. For you did not wrap the edge about the core, as I would have done, and I am curious to see how you will go about the point!"

Thorin made some markings on the blade, then heated it; and when he took it out of the fire, he bade Weyland hold the blade, while he chiselled off a triangular wedge from the end. Then he heated it again, applied borax, and proceeded to weld the edges of the gap together with careful strokes of his hammer.

Thorin was checking the point for symmetry when Dwalin knocked on the door of the forge. "So this is where you've been hiding all day!" said he. "You've missed dinner." He came in, followed by his brother Balin, and they nodded to the smiths but said no more, for they knew better than to disturb Thorin when he was working.

In the end, Thorin heated the whole length of the blade once more, and hung it up so that it might cool overnight.

"Well, my friends, you must forgive me," he said. "It has been a busy day, but I do not have long for this, and do not wish to leave it unfinished! But how did you fellows entertain yourselves?"

"Oh, famously! Dwalin had this notion of playing drill sergeant to those Royal Guards; and guess who was there? Our friend, young Gunnwald!" Balin chuckled. "You should have seen the look on his face when he saw Dwalin charging at him!"

Dwalin grinned. "I've never seen him Balin struggle so hard to contain his laughter. He went purple in the face, trying not to giggle."

"Aye," said Balin, "it was priceless. But our friend Amleth kept a lid on things, and got his lads training properly; and that Gunnwald got away with a fright."

Thorin smiled, for he was glad to see his friends in such merry spirits. He turned to the smiths, and bade them a good night, and told them he looked forward to seeing them again on the morrow; and the three Dwarves walked slowly back up the hill to Meduseld.

"Shall we drop by the kitchens?" asked Balin. "It's a bit late, but you might still be able to get a bowl of soup."

"I will do so gladly, if you can lead the way!" said Thorin, for he realised now that he was famished. "I must apologize to the King and the lady tomorrow; I suppose it was rather rude of me to disappear like that."

"Oh, the King won't mind, I don't think he's the formal type," said Dwalin. "And the lady wasn't there either. She was feeling out of sorts, or had work to do, or something." Thorin hoped she wasn't still upset over that business with Scatha's hoard. Maybe she _was_ unwell. She had looked a little feverish, that morning in the forge.

"Speaking of the lady", said he, "I would be grateful if you two could remain discreet about what I'm doing in that forge. I would like to surprise her."

"You mean that sword is for _her_?" exclaimed Balin in disbelief.

"Well of course," answered Thorin. "It's about time she had a proper one. Don't you think so, Dwalin?"

Dwalin mumbled something to the effect that it was, but he was a little distracted by the heavily significant look Balin was giving him. It all but screamed 'I told you so'.


	23. Chapter 22

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 22**

Thorin slept a deep, untroubled sleep, and rose refreshed, and eager to continue his work at the forge. He strode into the great hall with a spring in his step, and greeted the assembled company. It was rather subdued. Balin's face was closed, and the lady Helmwyn had dark circles under her eyes; and as for Dwalin, he was eyeing his bowlful of mixed nuts, grains and berries balefully. King Brytta was his usual self however, and wished him a sonorous good morrow.

"Well, Thorin Thráinsson!" boomed the King. "Is it the company of smiths that put you in such good spirits?"

"Aye, my lord, it is!"

"So what is it you have been working on all this time?"

"Oh, this and that," answered Thorin evasively. "But these smiths are excellent fellows, and masters of their craft; and we have much to talk about!"

"I am glad you are finding your stay profitable - as are your companions, from what I have heard" said the King with a wide grin.

"Aye, I too have heard that tale," smiled Thorin. But now he turned to Helmwyn, who was picking at her food with downcast eyes: "Might I ask how you are faring this morning, my lady? For I heard you were not well."

Helmwyn looked up, startled. "Oh. Thank you, my lord, but it is nothing. Well, not nothing. It is taxes. Taxes quite rob me of my sleep."

The King patted his daughter's hand affectionately. "So that's why you were closeted with Osric in the vaults all day. Poor child."

"It is always the same, Father; I return from Lindburg to find the wretched paperwork has piled up in my absence," said she with a wan smile; but she did not meet the lord Thorin's eye.

* * *

Later, Helmwyn sat at her table, and stared at Osric's ledgers, which lay open before her. She had intended to apply Balin's bookkeeping methods to them, to spot any discrepancies, any negligence, any fraud. She had really meant to do this. She had ridden back to Edoras for this. But instead she found herself staring blankly at the figures, while her mind was elsewhere.

In the end she gave up, and reached for another book, and laid it on the open ledgers. She skimmed through the pages, looking for any mention of dragons, especially in connection with Durin's folk. She half-remembered that there were tales that spoke of this; but of course, when she had last read them, she had not had the same interest in Dwarves, or in dragons. _(1)_

Thus did she come upon the tale of Azaghâl and Glaurung _(2)._ And she read about the great Dwarf king, and his valiant stand against the Worm, and his death; but in her mind, he took on the features of Thorin Oakenshield, undaunted, in golden armour, breathing his last in a bold and glorious deed.

Helmwyn shuddered.

* * *

It was another glad day spent in the forge; and while Thorin worked on his blade, Njarl and Weyland were busy with the lady's armour, which they had neglected the previous day. The three smiths laboured in industrious silence, and the only sounds were those of tools on metal.

Thorin carefully worked on the bevels of the sword, always making sure that the blade remained straight, and taking care not to deform the pattern. When he had finished, he let it cool, and went to watch the others as they embossed the lady's armour. They were using a quatrefoil pattern, and told him this was a device of the House of Eorl. He left them to it, and went to file the scale off the blade, before setting to work at the grindstone.

It was a tricky business, grinding the fullers, and required a steady hand; but he worked slowly, and constantly checked his progress, and was rewarded for his patience when he saw the rippling pattern emerge on the blade. He saw that the pattern was perfectly centred; and, pleased, he proceeded to grind the bevels. The rest of the day was spent in filing, grinding and sanding, which was tedious enough, but none the less essential, for grind-marks had to be eliminated, lest they cause the blade to shatter.

Balin and Dwalin had a notion that Thorin might miss dinner again, and came down to the forge that evening with some food. "How was your day, laddie?" asked Balin with studied geniality.

"A day spent at the grindstone, my friend," answered Thorin. "But you've arrived just in time for the moment of truth! This is when we shall find out whether my seams hold up," said he, and placed the blade into the fire once more, and worked the bellows. Njarl and Weyland watched in silence, for they knew this was a tense moment; but Dwalin sidled up to Hrolf the apprentice, and told him, in a stage whisper: "If the blade cracks or warps, you'd better leg it, my lad, because Thorin here might start throwing things."

"I heard that!" said Thorin from across the forge. But Dwalin was right. The smallest defect in the metal might cause the blade to crack upon quenching; and if that happened, Thorin could not answer for his reaction, after all the attention he had lovingly lavished on this sword. There was nothing for it but to trust to his experience, and his skill, and his instinct for metalwork; and when he judged the moment to be right, he pulled the glowing blade from the fire, offered up a silent prayer to Mahal, and plunged the blade into the oil.

* * *

The first stars were coming out, and Thorin walked back to Meduseld on his own. Perhaps he should have quenched the blade in horse-blood, he thought; that would have been appropriate, although he wondered whether the people of the Mark would have been willing to bleed one of their steeds for this. But it mattered not. The blade had held, and he was relieved. He had sent Balin and Dwalin off to dinner, for he still needed to temper the blade; and to tell the truth, he enjoyed working in the forge after hours, when all else was quiet. Now, walking up the hill, he felt at peace with himself and the world; and that was rare enough for him to savour the moment.

He wondered whether he would find anyone still in the hall; and indeed, Balin and Dwalin were still sitting with the King and some of his captains, and drinking companionably. But the lady Helmwyn sat away from the others, curled by the fire with a book in her lap. Thorin felt a little self-conscious, for he was sweat-stained, and covered in grime and metal filings, and he reeked of hot oil; but they greeted him, and King Brytta offered him a mug of ale, which he accepted gratefully.

Helmwyn did not join them, but pretended to read, as she had been doing all evening. Indeed, she could not face making conversation, but neither did she want to arouse any more comments by retiring early; and bringing a book had seemed to her the best way of being left alone. But Thorin saw that she sat on her own, with her hair loose, and the same blue gown as on the day he had first seen her; and she seemed to him pensive, and very lovely. He was in good spirits, and walked affably over to her by the fire.

"So, _did_ you find out anything interesting about dragons, my lady?" he asked her. "We…talked of other things the night before last, and you never told me what else you had found in your books."

Helmwyn looked up at Thorin; and her heart tightened at the sight of him, work-stained and smiling.

"Let us not talk about this now, my lord, I beg you," said she with a forced smile; "for I see that you are in a good mood, and would not spoil it with talk of such matters."

But Thorin laughed. "Is it not better, rather, to discuss these things while I _am_ in a good mood? Come, lady; let us sit and talk, you and I."

Helmwyn's throat suddenly felt dry. She wanted to run away, or else throw her arms about him; but she did neither, and instead bade him sit with her, as they always did.

"My lord," she began, "I … I have been thinking about what you said to me some time ago – about retaking the Mountain."

Thorin thought that she looked uneasy.

"What is it, lady? Would you advise me against it?"

"I would not presume to advise you, my lord, for I am not learned in this matter," answered Helmwyn; "all I can do is to collect what little lore I have here and to put it at your disposal, to do with as you please. It may help you, or it may not."

Thorin gave her a searching look. "I would hear what you have to say, my lady."

Helmwyn took a deep breath. "It seems to me…that if the deed must be attempted at all, your chance may lie in wit and stealth."

"Wit and stealth?" said Thorin. "What mean you?"

"Well…first of all, it seems that though a dragon can slaughter entire armies, such a beast may be slain by one man, if the tales be true." She leafed through her book, a _Legendarium_ compiled in Gondor, which was her most prized possession. "Thus it is in the lay of Túrin, who concealed himself in a crevice and stabbed the worm Glaurung as he crawled above him; but that is an ancient song _(3)_. The tale of Frám says much the same though, and that is not so old; and your people have memory of it as well, so I am inclined to believe it."

Thorin listened intently to her words, and thought hard upon them. He remembered the fate of Azaghâl, and his mood was grave once more. "So you would counsel me not to attempt this by strength of arms?"

"Though the chances be slender, one swordsman may succeed where an army would not, if there be such a fissure in the Mountain where he might conceal himself, and strike."

Thorin thought of the dragon's scaly hide, and tried to remember if there were any cellars or passageways in Erebor whence one might strike at the beast's soft underbelly. He found, to his shame, that he could not remember the Mountain well enough. Dispirited, he asked her: "And was there aught else in your books?"

"Is it true that dragons have wit and speech, as it is said in the tales?" Helmwyn asked.

"Smaug did not stop to introduce himself when he took the Mountain, my lady," said Thorin; "so I cannot vouch for him. But I have heard it said that the dragons do have intelligent minds, albeit evil ones; and indeed that they are no common beasts, but servants of an ancient Enemy, for no beast has such greed, malice and pride."

"Aye, and there perhaps lies your chance," she said; "for greed can be baited, malice can be tempted, and pride can be flattered. Although it must be hard to deceive a dragon, and dangerous to try, yet such flaws have ever been the downfall of the mighty. Perhaps a skilled flatterer might lure the dragon out, and give a lone swordsman a chance to strike."

Thorin brooded on this. It was a wild and dangerous scheme, and seemed quite hopeless; but then, so was the notion of fighting Smaug with the tattered remains of his people's forces. After all, they had been unable to stop him when they had been at the height of their strength. The Dwarves of Belegost long ago, with their thick armour and their fearsome masks, had held out longer than most; but in the end, they too had been consumed in great numbers. He would have to be truly desperate to attempt anything at all; but he knew that one day he would have to, whichever way he chose to go about it. That burden was his to bear, and he would find no peace until he had retaken Erebor, or perished in the attempt.

Helmwyn saw the frown on Thorin's brow and the cold fire in his eyes, and feared she had angered him. "Forgive me, my lord," said she quickly; it was not for me to speak -"

But Thorin put his hand on hers, as he had done two nights before; only now she trembled at the touch. He looked gravely into her eyes.

"Nay, my lady," said he. "You need never apologise to me; for you have spoken to me as a true friend would. You did not tell me what I wished to hear, but what you thought was right; and for that I thank you. But I believe there is wisdom in your words. I will think on them, and remember them when the time comes." And with that, he released her hand, and gave a bitter smile. "Though of course wit and stealth are not qualities for which we Dwarves are renowned!"

And Helmwyn made herself smile back; but she could think only of his hand, and of his voice, and of his eyes, pale and fierce against his sweat-burnished skin. They sat so close that she could have leant over and kissed the frown from his brow. She did no such thing of course. But Thorin bade her good-night, and said he had much to think on; and her eyes followed him as he walked away down the hall.

At the table, Balin rolled his eyes at Dwalin, but said nothing.

* * *

Thorin walked past he great woven tapestries that hung in the hall; and it was dim, but he glimpsed rich colours in the gloom. Suddenly he stopped, for something had caught his eye, and he turned back to look closer. One tapestry showed a great serpent coiled around a warrior, and spewing flame; but the warrior was fighting valiantly, and behind him there was a golden hoard. Frám, Scatha's Bane, thought Thorin, and glared at the woven image, and stalked away; and though the tapestry Worm's scales were green, he thought more of Smaug than of Scatha.

He washed off the day's grime, and went to bed, only to find that he could not sleep. He lay in the dark and mulled over the problem of the Mountain once more, and once more tried hatching various plans to bring the dragon down. The lady's words had brought some variety to his imagined schemes, but these all seemed equally hopeless. Perhaps there would still be some survivors from the Mountain who remembered any drains or passages that may run under the treasure-chamber; although knowing Thrór, Thorin could well imagine that he would have had any such passages sealed, for fear of thieves. Still, he would make enquiries when he was back in Ered Luin.

It was a pity the lady could tell him nothing about the life-span of dragons. Thorin was willing to wait many years for his revenge; and in the meanwhile his people would increase again, and grow strong. But he could not wait forever; and he wondered what difference a century or two would make to Smaug. Was he not very ancient already? The Elves would know; but Thorin was damned if he was going to turn to the Elves for help.

He reflected that he should have thanked the lady better; for after all, she cared for the fate of his people, and she had really meant to help. He had seen it in her eyes. Her words had been wise, and thought-provoking; but they had troubled him, and he hoped he had not been curt with her. He thought she would understand though, for indeed he felt she understood him better than most. In any case, he was going to make up for it. The sword was going to be splendid, and it would be a handsome token of his esteem.

Thorin rolled over and sighed. At last he fell at last into an uneasy sleep, and dreamt that a great serpent was choking him in his coils.

* * *

While the lord Thorin slept and dreamt of dragons, Helmwyn lay awake and thought of the lord Thorin.

How had she not seen this coming? To be sure, she had thought the lord Thorin handsome, and noble, and powerful; but after all, she had grown up among the fine, strong warriors of the Mark, and was used to being among men, and they held no especial fascination for her. She could deal with them; and she had thought that she could deal with the lord Thorin, too. She had been unwary, unguarded, careless; and now she found that she was ensnared, though no snare had been laid.

Helmwyn cursed herself for her foolishness.

Now her heart ached with longing for the lord Thorin, and the very thought of him made her blush. No man of the Mark had ever had that effect on her; not even her husband. Aye, she had wanted him, but she had never let that get the better of her, just as she had taken his death in her stride. But now Helmwyn felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice, and fear of the unknown gripped her heart. She was terrified.

* * *

_(1) Thus probably foreshadowing many of today's fangirls._

_(2) "__Last of all the eastern force to stand firm were the __Dwarves__ of __Belegost__, and thus they won renown. For the __Naugrim__ withstood fire more hardily than either __Elves__ or __Men__, and it was their custom moreover to wear great masks in battle hideous to look upon; and those stood them in good stead against the __dragons__. And but for them __Glaurung__ and his brood would have withered all that was left of the Noldor. But the Naugrim made a circle about him when he assailed them, and even his mighty armour was not full proof against the blows of their great axes; and when in his rage Glaurung turned and __struck down__Azaghâl__, Lord of Belegost, and crawled over him, with his last stroke Azaghâl drove a knife into his belly, and so wounded him that he fled the __field__, and the beasts of __Angband__ in dismay followed after him.__Then the Dwarves raised up the body of Azaghâl and bore it away; and with slow steps they walked behind singing a dirge in deep voices, as it were a funeral pomp in their country, and gave no heed more to their foes; and none dared to stay them." – The Silmarillion_

_(3) "But ere the middle night the dragon roused, and with a great noise and blast cast his forward part across the chasm, and began to draw his bulk after. […] Then Turambar summoned all his will and courage and climbed the cliff alone, and came beneath the dragon. Then he drew Gurthang, and with all the might of his arm, and of his hate, he thrust it into the soft underbelly of the Worm, even up to the hilts. But when Glaurung felt his death-pang, he screamed, and in his dreadful throe he heaved up his bulk and hurled himself across the chasm, and there lay lashing and coiling in his agony. And he set all in a blaze about him, and beat all to ruin, until at last his fire died, and he lay still." – The Silmarillion_


	24. Chapter 23

**THE LINDEN TREE**

**Chapter 23**

Balin wandered into the forge for want of anything better to do. He had tried approaching King Brytta about the terms of their employment, but the King had merely replied: "Of course, my dear fellow, of course! But ask my daughter, why don't you; she's much better at numbers than I am;" so he was back where he started. He was beginning to feel restless, and fretted about Thorin now on top of everything else. And since he was tired of watching Dwalin drill soldiers all day, he decided he might as well drop in on Thorin, and maybe try to gauge his state of mind.

Thorin was pleased to see him. "Ah, Balin! Just the fellow I needed," he beamed. Balin had noticed that Thorin was cheerful these days, and found that rather alarming. "Here, look," said Thorin, quite oblivious to his friend's morose expression, "I've made some designs for the hilt and pommel. What do you think?"

Balin peered at the proffered parchment, and eyed it professionally. He poked his finger at a pair of quadrupeds that appeared to be struggling through a thicket of tendrils. "Are those supposed to be horses?"

Thorin gave him a look. "Obviously. Why, what's wrong with them?"

"They look more like dragons to me."

"Look, they've got four legs, and quite frankly with that amount of scrollwork around them, I think the difference is purely academic," said Thorin petulantly. Dwarves didn't usually make animal designs, but he had wanted to attempt something in the style of the Mark. The result was a little angular, to be sure, but he had been rather pleased with it.

"Suit yourself. I was just saying," said Balin airily; but Thorin was peeved. Balin gave in. "All right, all right, they're very nice, whatever they are. I suppose you'd like a hand with the lost wax?"

"How kind of you to make yourself useful, Balin" said Thorin. He was frowning, but he did welcome Balin's help; for Balin was a trained jeweller, and was good at all the minute, fiddly detail that he himself seldom bothered with.

"Fine," said Balin, throwing up his hands. "Come on lads, let Uncle Balin through. Where's that lump of wax?"

Weyland and Njarl were supposed to be working on the lady's armour; but since they were chasing and engraving helm and buckles, they took an interest in what the Dwarves were doing. They sent Hrolf to enlist the help of the goldsmith and the saddler, and they came eagerly when they heard that a sword was being especially made for the lady Helmwyn.

The forge became crowded, but it was merry work; and all together, they were busy as bees, casting bronze and chasing belt and scabbard mounts, engraving hilt and pommel, and inlaying them with gold and silver wire. Balin shook his head a little, and hoped he had succeeded in making the quadrupeds look a little more identifiably like horses; or else Thorin would never hear the end of it.

* * *

King Brytta sat with his daughter, and the steward Osric hovered awkwardly near them. Helmwyn had brought petitions by villagers from the Westfold, begging the King for land where they might resettle. The King was generous – too generous; and Helmwyn was trying all she could to make him see sense.

"If folk wish to settle further east, by all means, let them," said the King. "I daresay there is enough land for everyone"

Helmwyn sighed. They must have had this same conversation a thousand times. "Father, I've told you before. The Westfold is rich arable land. It is the granary of the Mark. We cannot simply allow people to abandon it."

"Would you force them to remain in an Orc-infested land?" asked the King. "Besides, there is plenty of space in the Wold."

"The Eastfold alone cannot feed all of the Mark," explained Helmwyn with as much patience as she could muster; "and the Wold is suitable as pasture, but not for crops. It is too marshy; but there at least the horses are safe. In any case, once the Orcs have bled the Westfold dry, they will turn eastwards. Flight is not a solution."

The King was growing angry. "But then what would you have me do? Should I deny these people who beg me for help? Shall I tell them that they must stay and face this peril?"

"Aye," said Helmwyn; "or we might as will give up the Mark now, and go back north, whence Eorl came." Helmwyn hated herself for being so caustic, and spoke in a softer voice. "But Father, they shall not face peril unaided."

"Daughter. You know this as well as I do. Aye, we can fight the Orcs in the plains; but we cannot be everywhere at once. There _will_ be raids, and burnt homesteads, and slain villagers, however many Riders patrol the Westfold. How could I ask people to stay, knowing this?"

"They must gather; and fortify their homesteads. I know that folk are loath to do it; but this we have learned. Villages with fences, watchtowers, and beacons can defend themselves. Besides," she added flatly, "a large supply of cheap timber has unexpectedly become available. Is it not so, Osric?"

She looked pointedly at the steward, who anxiously proceeded to mutter facts and figures to the bemused King.

Helmwyn loved her father dearly, for he was great-hearted and generous; and she hated having to be the cold voice of reason. After all, she shared his concern, and his desire to save all; but she also knew that the Westfold must be dwelt in, and farmed, if the people were to eat. There was no easy solution to this; but the King tended to lose sight of these details, and she sometimes found his stubborn generosity trying. They would argue, though they both had the interests of the Mark at heart. And the King would sulk, though he would eventually heed his daughter's counsel; but it pained her every time.

Osric droned on about the transport of timber out onto the plains, and Helmwyn thought about the Hornburg. It would be made fast, she knew, and the stores held there would at least avert a famine. But thinking of the Hornburg, she also thought of the lord Thorin, and of the fact that he would leave when the works were completed. Helmwyn knew that he loved her not; and had somehow made her peace with that. But she could not now endure he prospect of facing the coming months of raids and struggles without him; and her heart was filled with despair.

"Daughter, is this true?" said the King.

Helmwyn was startled. "Is what true?"

"That Wulfhere has made us a very generous offer indeed?"

"Aye, I suppose it is." She found she had a lump in her throat. "Forgive me if I was distracted, Father; I have been sleeping badly."

King Brytta dismissed Osric, and sat mulling over the problem. His daughter always had the better arguments; but his heart rebelled, for he could not bear to see his people in need.

Helmwyn perceived his struggle, but this time she reached over and took his hand. "Father," she said. "You must think me very cold-hearted. But my heart bleeds for the Westfold, just as yours does; only my concern shows itself as bad temper. Forgive me."

The King smiled. "I know, child. You've always been a grumpy little thing, haven't you? Come here," said he, and pulled his daughter into a bear hug. But then he told her in earnest: "I am sorry you have to live through times such as these. I so wish I could achieve peace - for you, and for all of the Mark." He sighed. "But I am beginning to doubt whether I shall see peace again in my lifetime."

"Do not speak like this, Father, I beg you. Not you!" said Helmwyn. "We may not be able to defeat them – yet. But they shall not defeat us!"

"My brave girl," said the King, and kissed his daughter's brow; though in that moment Helmwyn was feeling anything but brave.

* * *

Mid-afternoon, the smiths decided that they would go to the vaults and try to find suitable gems for the sword and scabbard. They found Osric there, and he blanched when he saw the assorted craftsmen outside the door; for the lady had threatened him with very specific unpleasantness if he so much as breathed a hint about the hoard to any of the Dwarves, except the lord Thorin. But since he could not tell them apart, he thought he would be safest not mentioning anything to any of them, and even avoiding them as far as was possible. And now there were two in the doorway, backed by several formidable-looking craftsmen. Osric swallowed.

"Good afternoon, Master Osric!" said Harald the goldsmith pleasantly. "We were wondering if we could have a look at that cache of gems."

Osric panicked. He was almost certain that some at least of the rough gems kept here had come with the hoard, but he certainly could not tell which. A stone was a stone, as far as he was concerned. But the Dwarves might be able to tell.

"I-… I don't know" he stalled, "you see, I've been trying to put some order in here, now might not be a good time-"

"Oh, don't mind us, we'll be gone in no time" said Weyland, and swept past the poor steward into the vault. Much of the treasure had already been ordered and put away in chests, but Osric flailed around trying to distract their attention away from what was still on show. Mercifully, Thorin had the presence of mind to put his arms firmly around Balin's shoulders and to manoeuvre him towards the small table where Osric stood quaking.

"So…what is it you are looking for, exactly?" stammered the steward.

"Gems. For a sword hilt and scabbard" explained Weyland patiently.

"Preferably blue," added Thorin.

"Hard. Something that won't crack or splinter" contributed Balin, who wondered slightly at Thorin's sudden demonstration of brotherly feeling.

"W-well, let me see what we have" said Osric, and picked out a few specimens that he laid out on a velvet cloth.

Balin pulled out a jeweller's eyeglass and examined several stones. "Well, fancy that," he exclaimed all of a sudden; "I thought these were only found in the Grey Mountains, in the far north!"

"Yes. How extraordinary. It seems they also have them here," said Thorin, and looked pointedly at Osric.

"What do you think, lads?" asked Balin, oblivious to all this. "These are pretty, though they're not as hard as I'd wish" he said, and showed the unremarkable bluish-grey stones to the others.

The crafsmen of the Mark were not familiar with these stones, but the two Dwarves were; and they knew that once the stones were cut and polished, they would have a green fire in them, like the skies in the northlands. Besides, Thorin thought it pleasant that the lady should wear jewels from Scatha's hoard on the pommel of her sword.

"I'm happy with these if you are," he said.

"Aren't you afraid they might crack?" wondered Balin.

Thorin shrugged. "Better cracked jewels than a shattered blade, if you ask me. Besides, I think the lady would like them." The others concurred with that. Blue-grey-green stones were bound to please her, but she was unlikely to care much if they got chipped.

"These it is, then!" said Harald enthusiastically.

Osric was leafing ineffectually through his ledgers.

"Is this for an official commission?" he asked.

"Nay, this is officious. You can dock these stones off my salary," grinned Thorin. Balin sighed.

* * *

When they returned to the forge, Egil the saddler had assembled a scabbard of linden-wood for the sword, lined it with fleece, and bound it in the same blue leather as was embossed on the lady's armour. All agreed that the gems they had chosen would go well with this; and Balin set about cutting the stones to the right dimensions. Njarl, Weyland and Harald worked on the detailing and gilding of the scabbard and belt mounts; Egil carved the wooden grip; and Thorin was intent on minute details of the hilt and pommel.

He had acid-etched the blade earlier, and polished it; and the pattern on it was so beautiful that he had not the heart to engrave runes upon it. So instead he wrote them on the hilt, and surrounded them with coils of gold and silver wire. In truth, he knew not what Balin had against his drag- his horses; they looked reasonably horse-like to him. A little grim, to be sure, but that was appropriate for a sword.

They had to stop at sundown, for there was now not enough light for them to work by; and so they resolved to finish and assemble everything the next morning. The craftsmen gathered to look at the unfinished sword as it lay on the bench, and they were proud of their work.

"Well," said Weyland, "she's steely, and golden, and clad in blue leather – I daresay the lady will like her!" and at that they all laughed, and went to look for a cask of ale to share. But as Balin made to cover the sword before putting it away, his eyes fell on the runes that Thorin had engraved upon the hilt; and he sighed, and shook his head sadly, and went after them.


End file.
